World Histories Collection
by Redbayly
Summary: An assemblage of various moments throughout world history. Some are funny, some are tragic, some are fluffy and sweet, and some are heart-rendingly horrific. This beautiful world is full of stories and, while we cannot know them all, we can take a peek into history through the eyes of the nations.
1. Ignite

**Welcome to my collection of Hetalia historical one-shots. Featuring lots of OCs alongside canon characters. I will warn readers now that there will be some very dark and often disturbing elements and themes to this collection – I will tag as needed – and I just want everyone to be aware that nothing contained herein is meant to cause offence, but to provide an artistic depiction of historical events as I have interpreted them according to documentation and the worldviews of the characters portrayed.**

**Updates may be sporadic as I have a number of other fics going.**

**I have decided to start off with a particularly potent moment from history. Inclusion of Austria/Hungary pairing.**

**Warning: Depictions of violence and death.**

Ignite

Austria fanned himself with his hat as he waited in the lobby of the town hall, listening to the furious shouts of the archduke from the other room.

"This visit is not going nearly as well as I hoped," he thought aloud.

"At least the worst appears to be over," Hungary said, resting a gloved hand comfortingly on his arm. "The police have taken the bomber into custody."

It had been a very near thing. A young Bosnian had decided to protest the authority of Austria and Hungary over his nation by throwing a bomb at the car of the archduke and his wife while they were making an official visit to Sarajevo. By sheer chance, the bomb had bounced off the front of the car and under the car behind them, sparing the lives of the imperial couple but leaving over a dozen onlookers and additional members of the motorcade badly injured. The attempted assassin had then tried to commit suicide by consuming a cyanide pill and jumping into the river – again, the man's fortunes appeared to be off as the pill merely caused him to vomit and the river was shallow due to the summer heat, leaving him alive and exposed to the furious crowd, which proceeded to beat him until the authorities arrived.

Overall, it was not the welcome that Austria had anticipated when he and Hungary decided to visit. Bosnia and Herzegovina both insisted they had no idea that anything like this was going to happen and had practically begged Austria and Hungary not to take this isolated incident as a sign of their disloyalty. The two had been strangely furtive, as of late, and Herzegovina had even stopped her normal spate of criticisms of Austria and Hungary; it was suspicious, but not enough to accuse the couple of treason. Even if they were complicit in the attack, Austria doubted that they were the masterminds behind it.

No, if there was anyone plotting to harm the archduke, it would be that snake Serbia. Only about a decade ago, the deranged Slavic country had joined in a coup with Dragutin Dimitrijević and brutally murdered his own king and queen in order to install a ruler who favored Slavic nationalism. And even further still, hidden in the shadows, Russia was undoubtedly pulling the strings and sowing discontent. Serbia was many things, but 'subtle' was not one of them. And, as terrifyingly direct as Russia could be, the frost-bitten behemoth could be infuriatingly devious to the point that Serbia and other Russia-sympathizers likely didn't realize they were being manipulated.

"I don't like this," Austria continued, taking Hungary's hand in his and savoring the quiet strength her presence always provided. "I will feel safer once we return home."

Hungary kissed him on the cheek, causing him to blush at the public display of affection (though, thankfully, there were not that many people around to witness it).

"You are such a worrier, Roderich," she said. "And, besides, if anything does happen, I'll protect you."

"Why did we even have to come here?" Austria muttered. "It's not like the people outside even want to see us. I doubt a single one of them is genuinely happy that they answer to us, now."

"We're protecting Bosnia and Herzegovina. You know what would happen if someone doesn't step in on their behalf. Serbia would walk all over them the first chance he got."

Whatever Austria was about to reply was cut off as the archduke and his wife reappeared, accompanied by the small security force. Austria was absolutely disgusted by the lack of proper security measures. They had been promised an escort of six specially-trained officers; instead, they had one such officer and a couple of Bosnian policemen. It seemed the government was more concerned with organizing the dinner menus for the trip than ensuring the safety of the heir to the throne. Austria just wanted the trip to be over with so he could go home to his piano, but life and incompetent underlings kept providing more and more obstacles for him.

"We are changing the schedule," the archduke said, slapping Austria's shoulder in a companionable way, making the rather delicate nation wince. "Sophie has suggested we go to the hospital to visit the people who were injured in the attack."

"What a wonderful idea," said Hungary, giving a friendly smile to the duchess. "Of course we should offer our sympathies to the injured."

Duchess Sophie smiled back, thankful that someone other than her husband appreciated her ideas. Hungary was one of the few people who did not make her feel like an outsider. Ever since Sophie's marriage to Archduke Franz Ferdinand, she had been snubbed and criticized by many members of the aristocracy due to her being from an obscure Czech family of lesser nobility. Hungary, at least, was willing to be respectful to the woman, and Sophie always appreciated having someone in her corner.

Perhaps that was what Austria loved most about Hungary. She was always so willing to see the best in people and stand up for those who are treated unfairly. She was one of the few good things in Austria's life and had stood by him even in some of his darkest times. She had a way of endearing herself to almost anyone. Even the archduke was fond of her despite his deep dislike of the Hungarian people – and hadn't _that_ been an awkward moment to overhear the archduke call all Hungarians 'scheming' and 'untrustworthy.'

The ladies adjusted their hats and the men straightened their ties as they returned to the cars. Austria held the door open for Hungary and offered her his hand to help her into their vehicle. She gave him an amused look at his officiousness. Many times, Hungary had said she was perfectly capable of seating herself in a car without assistance, but Austria's gentlemanly sense of etiquette demanded that he do little things like hold doors for her, pull out her chair for her at supper, find the glove she misplaced at the opera, and even throw his jacket over a puddle for her so she wouldn't get her feet wet – no matter how much he liked said jacket.

Hungary leaned slightly against Austria's shoulder, causing him to blush at yet another small public display of affection. Austria could honestly say that his time with Hungary was the happiest he had ever been. Despite their past history of war with each other and the fact that their marriage had originally been ordered by their bosses for political reasons, Austria truly did care deeply for his wife. He wasn't sure if he would label it as 'love.' Austria had never had much experience with actual love.

At least, not in his memory, he didn't. There was a vague recollection from his childhood. A kind female presence who had held the young Austria in her arms and told him everything would be all right. But, she was a phantom, an enigmatic vision of a time lost to history and her very name unknown. That had been the first time Austria had ever known the feeling of love, only for it to be ripped away from him as he was flung into a world of backstabbing, power-plays, lies, and manipulations. Austria had tried to settle problems as peaceably as possible, and with each marriage alliance he made he held onto a hope that, maybe this time, a political union could turn into a loving one – he lost _that_ foolish hope after Spain abandoned him.

Austria was shaken from his contemplation as the driver turned rather sharply up a side street to follow the car carrying the imperial couple in front of them.

"What is going on?" Austria exclaimed. "This isn't right. Driver, we're going the wrong way!"

The car pulled to a stop at the same moment that the archduke and duchess's car did, only a short way from the Latin Bridge. There was a sudden tension in the air. Austria might not be the warrior that he had been as a child, but even he could detect that something was wrong. A tangible threat hung all around them and Austria's instincts were screaming at him to get out of there as fast as he could.

Then, from out of the crowd of onlookers, a figure charged towards the imperial car. The light of the sun glinted off the metal case of a gun clutched in the man's hand. It all happened so fast that Austria barely had time to register what was going on before a shot was heard.

The sound of Duchess Sophie screaming before being cut off by the second gunshot spurred Austria to try to rush to their aid. Hungary was already on her feet and about to make a break from the car when the driver put the vehicle in motion, backed up, and sped off. Hungary was knocked back in her seat from the impact and Austria clutched at the side of the car to steady himself.

"Driver, what is the meaning of this?!" Austria demanded, his temper flaring. "Stop! I order you! Stop!"

The car screeched to a halt and the driver rose to his feet and slowly turned to face them. At once, Austria recognized the arrogant smirk of Serbia, whose dark eyes glinted with a viciousness which chilled Austria to the core. Serbia reached into his jacket and, like the assassin, pulled out a gun.

"You folks came to the wrong neighborhood," he said, taking aim at Austria.

_Click._

* * *

Every sound was muffled and every shape blurred.

Austria couldn't connect his mind to what was going on around him. Time had seemed to slow to a snail's pace and he could feel nothing but the frantic _thump, thump_ of his heart in his chest. Austria blinked a few times and, though things began to come back into focus, his vision was dotted with spots. He fumbled as he tried to hoist himself to his feet, but his brain seemed unable to link to his flesh, leaving him with the feeling that he was watching the world through someone else's eyes.

Suddenly, everything was too loud, too bright. He could hear the shrill ring of sirens as if they were right beside his head. He felt a pain blooming in his stomach and clutched his hand to it, only to touch something wet. Pulling back his hand, he found it seeped with a vibrant red. The vividness of the substance and the rusty, metallic tang in the air made him realize it was blood. His own blood. Austria braced himself against the side of the car and tried to stay calm despite the panic building up inside of him as he remembered what happened.

Serbia had hijacked the car. Serbia had pulled out a gun and fired it. Hungary had screamed "No!"

Wait, Hungary!

Austria turned sharply, his head swimming from the sudden motion. There, lying slumped in her seat, was his wife of over fifty years – though, Austria would admit, he had wanted to marry her long before 1867. Austria had never had to witness Hungary go through a death before, and doing so now left him trembling. Hungary had always seemed an unbreakable and undefeatable force of nature. Even Prussia had cowered in the face of her anger. But, now…

She was so still, so pale, so…broken. She must have jerked her head back at some point, because her long, light brown hair now hung loose and disheveled around her face, having come free from the hat she had worn that day. Her beautiful green eyes were now dark and glassy, without a hint of their usual warmth. And there, blossoming thick and red across the white of her dress, were several gunshot wounds in her chest.

Austria finally collapsed back onto the seat beside her and, without even thinking, he pulled Hungary's lifeless body to him and began to shake. He wasn't even fully conscious of what he was doing; he merely followed his natural impulses, forgetting every social sensibility he had, as he cradled her still, cold body and muttered, "No, no, no" to himself as tears became to pour, unbidden, from his eyes.

In that instant, he was no longer Austria. He was Roderich Edelstein. He was a man who had awoken to find that his wife had been gunned down by a terrorist. Logically, he knew that Elizabeta would be fine and would come back, as nations were not so easily gotten rid of. But logic is difficult to grasp when one possesses human emotions and feelings. All Roderich knew was that his wife had been killed for no reason. She had done nothing wrong. If Serbia wanted to hurt someone, why couldn't he have just gone for him and left Elizabeta alone?

_It should've been me that died_, Austria thought. _Not her. Never her._

He was still holding her when the ambulance arrived. Even when the medics treated him for the wound to his abdomen – which had, miraculously, not caused significant damage – he insisted on staying with Hungary. When he said quietly to the medics that he wanted to be with her when she woke up, the humans looked at him pityingly, clearly believing him deluded or in extreme denial.

Austria would not be removed from Hungary's side. Not when the doctors told him he needed to rest and that there was nothing they could do for her. Not when the government officials arrived to inform him that both Archduke Franz Ferdinand and Duchess Sophie were killed in the attack by the gunman. Not when Bosnia and Herzegovina came to plead with him not to hold them responsible for the horrific events.

No. Austria stayed at Hungary's side until she finally took a breath and opened her eyes. And, even after that, he remained. And, in Austria's heart, despite his reserved temperament and delicate disposition, the warrior nature he'd had long ago once again flared to life, kindled by anger and hatred towards Serbia for doing something so needless and cruel. It wasn't his attack on Austria, himself, that started this. It wasn't the unrest Serbia was stirring up in the Serb population in Bosnia. It wasn't the fact that Austria's future leader was now dead. It wasn't even the fact that Austria now had to go back to his country and tell three children that their parents were never coming home.

It was because of Serbia's unwarranted attack against the woman Austria loved. For that reason, and that reason alone, Austria would neither forget nor forgive.

* * *

"What were you thinking, Vasilije?!" Bosnia demanded as he barged into an old warehouse to find Serbia casually cleaning weapons. "For the love of Allah, answer me!"

"Don't invoke your false version of God, Enis," Serbia said idly. "I never could understand why you and Albania still follow that vile religion which Turkey forced you to convert to."

"Turkey never _forced_ us to convert to Islam," Bosnia said angrily. "Bekim and I simply chose a different path to God than you. As has my Lejla and your dear little Arjana."

"Don't you dare bring my sister into this discussion, Enis. Kosovo will learn soon enough that I won't tolerate her foolish devotion to that old wind-bag Turkey. You and Herzegovina would do well to understand that, too."

"Oh, so now you seek to threaten us? Vasilije, I put up with you staying here in my lands because you promised me you had nothing to do with the madness going on in your home. Now, you've gone and aided in the murder of the heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, _in my capital_. Worse still, you went and attacked Austria and Hungary, themselves! Why?! Why would you do something so stupid?!"

"Why?!" Serbia snarled, jumping to his feet and stalking towards Bosnia, who began to cower from his neighbor. "You want to know _why_?! Because they were never going to stop! They already had control of you and Lejla, and you two were just dancing for them like puppets on strings. Where would it end, Enis?! Tell me! Where would it end?! Russia has promised to protect us once we officially ally with him-"

"Ally with that cold-hearted maniac?" Bosnia said incredulously. "Serbia, are you blind?! He only claims he wants to help you because he wants control over everyone and everything! You've traded one oppressive regime for another. Even worse, you have sold me and Lejla out for your own selfish gain. Never once did you ask if we wanted any part in this. You simply decided you knew what was best, like – like a tyrant! You don't care about me, or Lejla, or any of us!"

"Shut up, Enis! Everything I do, I do to protect us. I do care about you and Lejla and the rest of the Balkans. All I want is for us to be able to live together as a family so I can protect us all."

"But we're _not_ a family, Vasilije," Bosnia insisted furiously. "Our cultures and beliefs and goals are too different. It's _not_ your responsibility to take care of us. What you have done…this…this _insanity_…it will only ignite a conflict you cannot hope to stop. So many lives are going to be changed forever because of this, and not in the way you hoped. The blood of thousands of men, women, and children will be on your hands when all is said and done."

"Enis…" Serbia said in quiet surprise. He tried to reach out to Bosnia, but Bosnia swatted his hand away.

"No, Serbia. Nothing you say will justify what has happened. You have begun something here, today, which will never be forgotten, because it will destroy so much. I hope you can live with yourself after you see what your foolishness causes. But don't expect me to join you in this mad venture of yours. If you want me in your corner, you will have to drag me kicking and screaming into it. And, even then, I will leap at the first chance to escape."

Serbia stared at Bosnia as if he was seeing him for the first time. To him, Bosnia was always the slow, not particularly intelligent member of the Balkans, which was why other nations took advantage of him so easily. And to hear such a vehement rejection of Serbia's plans and an insistence that something terrible would result from Serbia's assassination plot from someone like Bosnia…Serbia wasn't sure how he should feel.

He was angry at Bosnia's words and his refusal to join in Serbia's grand vision for the Balkans, that went without saying. But the outright accusation that what he'd done would have him marked with shame and guilt for years to come…to be honest, it frightened him. Serbia would never admit it, but he did have a twinge of fear at that.

And time alone would tell what would rise from the ashes of the fire he had started that fateful day.

* * *

**Author's Note****: And, thus, the First World War was begun. And it's really all Serbia's fault, not that anyone but Austria remembered that when it was all over. Everyone, even today, still thinks it was Germany's fault – which I feel is unfair, as Germany was just following through on his promise to help his neighbor.**

**Anyway, I hope you all liked my first Historical Hetalia one-shot. Please let me know if there are any events or periods in history you'd like me to focus on. I've got quite a few ideas for Roman Empire segments.**


	2. Sabine

**Roman history is one of my favorite areas of study. Of course, Roman history is quite scandalous, violent, and disturbing. You have been forewarned.**

**Starring Ancient Rome x OC.**

**Warning: A bit of Stockholm Syndrome (sorta). Mentions of adultery and domestic issues. **

Sabine

Germania tried to ignore the sounds of yelling and objects smashing as he reviewed the reports from the imperial guards under his command – they were his people, forced into service to Rome's emperor after their lands were invaded and colonized (not that he was resentful or anything).

Rome suddenly dashed into the room as a vase smashed into the doorframe, narrowly missing his head, as he shielded himself with his arms. He was pursued by a furious woman. She would have been pretty had her face not been contorted into a hateful snarl, her hazel eyes glinting dangerously. She was normally an elegant figure, dressed in fine clothes and jewelry, her dark hair immaculately tied up beneath a diadem with delicate ringlets framing her fine features. Today, however, she had abandoned her regal and sophisticated bearing in order to vent her rage on Rome for what was likely another indiscretion.

"You bastard!" she screamed, launching another vase at Rome – which he dodged, causing it to smash against a nearby pillar.

"Sabina, _uxor amica mea_, it meant nothing!" Rome pleaded as the enraged woman continued to hurl abuse and objects at him.

"You call tramping around with that Egyptian whore '_nothing_'?!"

Germania pressed his face closer to the scroll as he attempted to ignore the all-too-common domestic dispute taking place in the background. Beside him, he heard Thrace – another reluctant peon of Rome's – give a soft snort of laughter at Rome's unfortunate situation.

"I hate you! Don't you ever touch me again, lecher!"

The angry woman stormed off, heading up the stairs and slamming the door to her private chambers so loudly it echoed throughout the palace. Rome finally crept out from under the table where he'd been seeking refuge and sighed in relief that he was safe…for now. He then collapsed into a chair beside his two unwilling servants and poured himself a goblet of wine from the pitcher on the table.

"Why can that woman not just leave me alone?" Rome said. He then turned to Germania and Thrace, who were staring at him with stony expressions which he ignored. "Never start a marriage with a kidnapping. Both of you promise me that."

The two territories grumbled their agreement at the statement. Then they registered what he'd said and their eyes widened.

"What?" said Germania. "What do you mean your marriage started with a _kidnapping_?"

"_Ita vero_, it did," said Rome. "Have I not told you both how I met my dear Sabina?"

Germania replied that, no, Rome had never thought to bring it up with them. Thrace muttered that he honestly didn't care but Rome was now going to tell them, anyway, regardless of if they wanted to know or not. Rome smiled almost fondly and propped his feet up on the table as he launched into his story.

* * *

_Mid-8__th__ Century B.C._

Romulus glared at the gangly, disheveled youth who represented the new kingdom he'd established out of the dirty collection of tribes in the heart of Latium. Rome gave his leader a sheepish look and tried not to wince as the morning light made his head throb. Rome was flanked on either side by warriors who were propping him up so that he didn't buckle under his own weight.

"I think I can guess where you have been all night, Roma," Romulus said, his scowl deepening. "You reek of cheap alcohol and cheaper women."

"It wasn't my fault, sire," said Rome.

"So, someone forced you to drink yourself half to death and then dragged you to every brothel in the city?"

Rome shifted on his feet under the look Romulus gave him. To think, the human before him was so young and yet he carried himself with a paternalistic air which made the scene resemble an angry father scolding a disobedient son.

"Your reckless behavior is making our kingdom a laughingstock, Roma," Romulus continued. "The other tribes and kingdoms ridicule us enough as it is. You need to stop acting like a child and take some responsibility."

"It's not as easy as you make it sound," Rome retorted defensively. "I spend most of my time alone, working on city plans. And, when I'm not doing that, I'm surrounded by young, single, bored men who talk me into joining them for outings like last night."

"Hmph, I suppose I can concede that point. After all, the wildness I've seen from you seems to be common among my citizens." Romulus began to pace. "It's become an increasing detriment to the stability and future of this kingdom. Too many men are not settled and running households, as they should be by now. There do not appear to be nearly enough families."

"Considering how few respectable women there are in this city, is that so surprising?" Rome said idly. "There are probably twenty unmarried men to every one unmarried woman."

Romulus froze mid-step and he turned to look at Rome in astonished realization.

"Roma, that is it!" he exclaimed.

"What is 'it'?" said Rome in confusion.

"The answer to our problems. We need to get _wives_."

Rome blinked at his king a few times, glanced over at the equally perplexed guards, and then turned back to Romulus.

"Huh?"

* * *

"Jupiter-dammit," Romulus exclaimed as he tossed away another letter from a local tribe refusing to send their daughters to marry 'smelly, crude, and uncivilized Romans.' "That's the twelfth rejection letter this week. You'd think these fools didn't want their daughters married."

"Actually, sire, I'm sure they do want their daughters married," said Rome. "Just not to us. You have to admit we haven't given them a very good impression."

"What do you mean, Roma?"

"Well, you did establish me by committing an act of murder against your own brother over something as stupid as naming rights."

"Would you rather have been named 'Reme,' then?"

"Not to mention what our recent immigrant population looks like," Rome continued, ignoring the question. "Most of our citizens are impoverished younger sons with few prospects, debtors and criminals seeking asylum, foreigners from non-Italian nations, and former slaves. To be honest, I think this is going to be a pointless venture."

"So, you want to give up because a few jumped-up tribes think they are better than we are? I am a son of Mars, and I do not accept this!"

Rome rolled his eyes and sighed. It was going to be a long night's work planning how to win the Roman men some wives. He wasn't particularly optimistic about his own chances for finding a bride. There weren't that many female tribes around, and, of those that did exist, they were mostly kept hidden away by their fathers and brothers. Frankly, Rome did not particularly wish to get married, anyway. He liked his free and unrestricted lifestyle.

Although, it did sound nice, the thought of someone being there when he got home. Someone to take care of him and keep his house in order, considering how, like most young men, Rome hadn't the faintest notion when it came to household management. However, Rome was a bit of a fool when it came to pretty women – he'd seen that woman, Greece, when she came to check on her colonies, but she barely spared Rome a passing glance no matter how he fell over himself trying to get her attention. He'd even tried to write Greece some love poems, as he heard she liked fancy writing and stuff – that is, he _tried_, until he remembered he was illiterate.

No, Rome did not do well when it came to women – at least, not with women he couldn't pay to enjoy his company.

* * *

Rome had never seen a celebration like what Romulus had planned before. Games and races and singing and dancing and copious amounts of food and drink (the very last of which Romulus had forbidden Rome from partaking of). All of this was done, ostensibly, to celebrate the festival of Neptune Equester.

In reality, Romulus had a much more devious motive for throwing this lavish gala and welcoming the large contingents of neighboring tribes, who were always keen to get free food and a show. The most substantial group of visitors were their closest neighbors, the Sabines.

Rome had to appreciate the beauty and elegance of the Sabine women as they walked past him, separated from their male relatives to sit together, set apart from the debauched revelry of the men. Behind him, he heard some of his human associates talking about the women and picking out which ones they liked best. Rome was about to turn and tell them to shut their mouths or they'd ruin the plan when his attention was caught by a figure among the throng of women.

Being a personification, Rome was more attuned to detecting entities like himself. And, as soon as he saw her, with her delicate, dark locks pulled up in a bun and woven with flowers and her glimmering hazel eyes, Rome wanted nothing more than to take her home and buy her nice things. It seemed a crime to him that such a beautiful nation should be garbed in such plain, simple clothing and not given fine linens and golden bracelets. Rome knew, then, what his future would hold and he offered up silent thanks to Venus Genetrix for delivering this gift to him. His heart began to race and his palms became sweaty from anticipation of what he knew was to transpire at this event.

He would have her. It was fate. It was the will of the gods, themselves.

Yes, he would have this tribe for his wife. And he would build an eternal kingdom for her and she would never want for anything. He would place a ring on her finger and a crown upon her head.

He watched her throughout the feast. He wasn't sure if she could feel him watching her, but he wouldn't be surprised if she did. He kept her continuously under his gaze so that he would be ready when Romulus gave the signal. He would not have any misguided humans attempt to make off with his prize.

Time seemed to crawl by at an agonizing pace, but, finally, the men of the visiting tribal parties reached such a point of inebriation that any move to retaliate against the Romans would have been laughable. Rome glanced to where his king sat and saw him smile and rise to his feet.

"My dear friends," he proclaimed. "It has been an honor and a pleasure to have you here with us today. I trust that this day will go down in history as a moment where so many different tribes and peoples were able to come together under the bonds of friendship…and kinship. We Romans may seem different to you, our neighbors, but we are not so strange to you, especially now. I believe it is in our mutual interest that our bonds be tied _permanently_, and that we shall be, from this day on, _one people_."

That was the cue. And the formerly amicable and pleasant acknowledgements of Romulus's speech from the visiting men turned to shock, anger, and terror as the Roman men surged upon the area where the women were seated. Rome, himself, felt as if he wore the winged sandals of Mercury as he flew towards the object of his desire. He was deaf to the shrieks of the human girls as they were thrown over the shoulders of their soon-to-be-husbands and carried off into the night while their fathers and brothers staggered about in a vain bid to rescue them.

It was clear the Sabine tribe now knew she was being hunted as she ducked and dodged around the rush and press of the crowd. As poised and graceful as she was, she was also as lithe and fleet as the goddess Diana running through her woodland realm or the Arcadian princess Atalanta racing her would-be suitors from the legends the Greek traders told. But, if she was Atalanta in this moment, then Rome was surely Hippomenes – though he, unfortunately, didn't have any golden apples to throw to distract her and had to rely purely on his own athletic prowess.

There was a peculiar thrill as he caught up to her, having narrowly dodged a punch to the face from one of her men and an attempted tackle from a fellow Roman who had assumed Rome's quarry to be a human woman and wanted to try for her, himself. It was a feeling of triumph and he was nearly drunk on the high of that rush. He caught her in his arms, drawing a furious shout from the little vixen, and hoisted her over his shoulder as his fellows did with their own chosen brides, pointedly ignoring as she kicked and flailed and screamed curses at him.

It amazed Rome how everything seemed to go off without a hitch. He decided he should listen to his king's advice more often.

* * *

"Perverted bastard!"

Rome ducked as his bride-to-be flung another vase at his head. This had been going on for about a week since the "carrying off" of the women from the festival. As soon as the Roman men had gotten their desired brides, they'd chucked out the fathers and brothers and bolted the city gates. However, their new Sabine wives were not exactly happy about being abducted and forced into marriage and the Roman husbands-to-be had to learn quickly that wooing respectable women into marrying them was not the same as trying to bed whores in the local brothels.

Considering the fact that the Sabine women shut themselves into separate quarters and refused to come out, let alone permit their abductors to touch them, the Roman men were beginning to grumble about missing the casual and easy affections of the prostitutes.

The only man in Rome who seemed to have had any luck with his bride was Romulus, who had taken a Sabine noblewoman as his wife. Actually, from what Rome had heard, Hersilia had realized fairly quickly what was going to happen at the party and had seized Romulus and carried _him_ off before he could go for another woman – as there was no way a distinguished lady such as herself would settle for anything less than a king and she wasn't going to lose Romulus to, say, the Sabine princess Tatia.

"You had better not touch me," Sabine snarled at Rome as he cowered under a table. "My parents are Umbria and Osca, and they will not stand for this act of abduction! My father will have your head for what you've done and my brothers will hang your carcass from your own city gates!"

"Sweetling," Rome said, trying not to sound pleading. "Nightingale. _Amica mea_. Please, listen to me."

"Stop calling me pet names, you lout!"

It was into this pleasant scene of domestic bliss that Romulus entered. The king of Rome shot his nation an unamused look, to which Rome could only shrug before having to dodge another vase thrown at his head by the lovely Sabine.

"All is going well, I see," Romulus said in a dry tone.

Sabine rounded on him with a heated glare and pointed at him in accusation.

"_You_!" she shouted. "This is your doing, bastard spawn of a she-wolf! Return me and my women to our tribe, or so help me-!"

"Charming," Romulus said evenly. He turned back to his nation. "Roma, perhaps it would be best if you step out for a minute and I will have a few words with your…intended."

"I am nobody's intended!" Sabine retorted as Rome took the opportunity to scuttle out of the room.

"My dear lady, I apologize that you and your womenfolk had to be brought here under such circumstances, but it was the result of urgent necessity."

"Necessity?! We were carried off by your savage men and ordered to marry them, whether we wanted to or not! Gods alone know what vile acts of brutality have been inflicted on my poor women."

Romulus did not feel it necessary to mention that actual incidents of sexual assault against the Sabine women were few enough to be practically nonexistent – and the few men who were caught forcing themselves on their new brides were severely punished according to Roman law. While it might have been a reasonable argument against what Sabine had said, Romulus had a feeling it would just have infuriated her even more.

"I assure you, my good woman," Romulus said with a level of patience unexpected from a purported son of the god of war. "You and the women of your tribe shall be well-treated here. I understand we Romans have not had the most pleasant reputation amongst our neighbors, but we are far from the savage brutes you believe us to be."

"I do not care for your excuses," Sabine raged. "I demand that you set us free, at once!"

"I am afraid that is quite impossible for several reasons. Firstly, my men and I have put so much planning and effort into this endeavor and risked so much to ensure the posterity of this city that releasing you and your womenfolk would likely result in a full-scale uprising and likely destroy this city."

"That's _your_ problem, she-wolf's bastard!"

"Secondly," Romulus continued as if she hadn't interrupted. "If I did try to release you all and the inevitable riot takes place, you and your women would still be trapped inside the city as it burned with none of the protection my laws have afforded you all against being forced into your captors' beds."

Sabine paled a bit and remained silent as the weight of the consequences sunk in.

"Lastly," said Romulus. "Even if I did release you and sent you all home to your fathers and brothers, what do you think their reactions would be to receiving women who have been kept in the homes of men they were not married to?"

The dire implications of that last point were very clear to Sabine. While she, herself, would be safe, the matter of family honor was such that many of her women could be put to death on their fathers' mere suspicions that their virginities were compromised by their captors. At the very least, the Sabine girls who had been captured would not have particularly good marriage prospects when they returned home, which might as well be a death sentence for some of the poorer girls who would not have means of financial support when their fathers died.

"But, I propose a solution to this," said Romulus after a lengthy pause as Sabine mentally digested the seriousness of the situation. "I cannot force you or any of the Sabine women to marry the men of this city. That decision lies with you Sabines, alone. But, if you do consent to wed, I promise you and your women all the rights and legal standing of citizens' wives. You shall have control over your own property and a certain degree of civic privileges.

"And, answer me this, Sabine: Would it truly be so terrible for you to be married to Roma? Is he that repulsive to you in appearance, manner, or temperament?"

Sabine thought on the awkward but quite attractive young man who had done nothing but try to make her comfortable and happy since he abducted her and locked her in his house. He wasn't a bad man, really. Brash, insensitive, a shameless skirt-chaser, and a bit of a clueless dolt, certainly, but not the vile, despicable cad she had initially taken him to be. It didn't excuse his behavior – not by any means – and Sabine doubted she would ever forgive him for placing her in this position…still, she couldn't bring herself to outright reject the proposal.

Would it really be so bad being married to Rome? He was a bit rough around the edges and painfully uncultured, but it was nothing a bit of nagging and a few more blunt objects thrown at him couldn't fix. He wasn't even bad-looking, either – definitely a right sight better than a few of the other tribes who had courted Sabine in the past. His reputation with women was disconcerting, but not really out of the ordinary for men of the region.

It grated on Sabine's natural obstinacy to just submit without putting up more resistance, but, honestly, how much of a choice did she really have? Her women would more than likely agree once Romulus spoke to them as he had to her – they simply did not have the same leeway that Sabine, herself, did and would prefer to take their chances with becoming respectable wives and mothers than risking whatever might happen to them back home once tongues started wagging about whether their honor was tainted. Sabine might be able to turn Rome down, but she couldn't just abandon her womenfolk to this strange, new life.

"Take some time to think on it," said Romulus as he turned to leave. "Maybe speak with Roma without throwing objects at his head. He's probably hiding in his garden right now."

Rome was, indeed, in the garden at the heart of the villa. He was sitting on a bench by a little pool of water under the shade of some large, leafy trees.

Sabine had to admit that it was strange seeing her abductor looking so calm and contemplative. There was an unspoken gentleness to the rugged and impetuous youth who had carried her off so unceremoniously. Silently, Sabine sat down beside him on the bench. He tensed for a moment, but, on realizing she wasn't going to hit him over the head with another vase, began to relax again.

"We were never properly introduced," Rome said at last. "I am Gaius Valerius Romanus, the city of Rome. What is _your_ name?"

It was such an innocent question, as if they were two children meeting for the first time and shyly giving their names before playing a game of knucklebones or throwing a ball around.

"I am Clodia Aemilia Sabina," said Sabine. "I am the tribe of the Sabines."

Rome smiled at her in such a guileless, cheerful way that it made something tickle in her stomach. They sat in silence for a while, stealing glances at each other before looking away awkwardly.

"Why me?" Sabine asked. "Why did you take me?"

"Because…" Rome said quietly. "Because I was tired of being alone. Because I saw you and the world stopped moving. Because I knew, in an instant, that I wanted nothing more than to give you everything you could ever want."

As flattering as his words were, Sabine was not going to be won over so easily.

"If we were married," she said. "There would be some conditions which I would expect you to honor."

"Name them," said Rome with obvious eagerness.

"Firstly, you will respect my word in this house. I will oversee the running of all domestic duties and all household slaves and servants must answer to me as they would to you. I will have all the rights and privileges of a _domina_ or I will have nothing to do with either you or this house."

"Agreed."

"Secondly, you will honor my position as your wife. I understand that you have some…habits of indulging in the company of less distinguished women. I doubt you would agree to curbing your proclivities, or else you would end up breaking such a promise if you did, so I will not begrudge you your extramarital activities provided that you never, _ever_ give any other female nation status over me. If I am to be your wife, I will be treated as such and not have my place in this household usurped by someone else."

"That seems more than fair."

"Thirdly, you will keep me in a lifestyle of comfort. I understand that your kingdom is still new and we will have to make some more frugal choices now, but, once your economy is more stabilized and prosperous, I expect to have some luxuries."

"I promise you, my Sabina, you will be arrayed like a queen."

Sabine huffed and tried to stifle the blush spreading across her cheeks.

"Finally," she said, "I want you to begin educating yourself. I refuse to be married to someone who does not intend to better himself and learn things like reading, writing, arts, and sciences. That woman, Greece, has been flaunting her achievements for long enough and I want to be part of something that will outshine her in the intellectual sphere."

Rome actually paused uncertainly on that one. He had always been more of an action-loving man than a scholar. He had respect for those who were educated and relied on them to help his city develop, but he'd never considered edifying himself. Still, if it would make Sabine happy, Rome was willing to give learning a try.

"All right," he said. "For you, and only for you, I'll start studying."

Sabine nodded and the two of them sat in companionable silence as the sun set in the distance, casting a vibrant array of oranges, pinks, and purples across the sky.

* * *

"And that is how I wooed my Sabina into becoming my wife," Rome said with an oblivious grin while Germania and Thrace stared at him in abject disbelief. "It all turned out perfectly…until her father and brothers started picking fights with me to try and get her back."

"Let me guess," Germania said dryly. "You 'kicked all their stupid asses and got blind drunk,' right?"

"Yes…sort of…not exactly." Rome rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Sabina and all her women marched onto the battlefield and started waving children in everyone's faces, called us all a 'bunch of insensitive, widow-making jackasses,' and made us all put our weapons down. Sabina kept pinching my ear until I signed a peace agreement with her family and apologized and then smacked her brothers around for ransacking Capitoline Hill."

"I see." Germania exchanged a wary glance with Thrace, who just had his usual expression of wanting to beat Rome over the head with a stick. "And your loving marital bond is…as strong as ever?"

Rome pouted and crossed his arms.

"I do not understand why she is so mad," he grumbled. "It's not like I did anything wrong! She said she didn't mind my having dalliances with other women."

"All your Roman women say they don't mind when their husbands are unfaithful," said Germania. "But they do mind. Literally, _every_ woman minds when her husband sleeps around."

"Oh, Germania," Rome said, shaking his head in a pitying way, his tone dripping with condescension. He often did this when Germania expressed his Germanic view of the world, as if Germania was little more than a naïve child – a sentiment which Germania found grating for any number of reasons. "You poor, simple, innocent soul. Men having sex with more than one person is just the natural order of things. It is our way as men to conquer as much as we can, both in land and in lovers."

Germania's face could have been carved from stone and Thrace just looked a bit cross-eyed.

Thrace was no stranger to polyamorous relationships – his people were a bit promiscuous and did not have much in the way of restrictions on sexual expression, and having multiple spouses or sexual partners was not only expected but encouraged – but the way Rome described sex as conquest left him somewhat dazed. Germania, in contrast, found loose sexual behavior to be very distasteful as the various Germanic peoples were largely monogamous and frowned on extramarital activities – Germania was the only one of the personifications from his homeland to have more than one wife, which he only did as he was the equivalent of a high chieftain among his people (he had two wives, Suebi and Teuton, – the latter of whom was dead – and one concubine, the tribe of Veleti).

"Be that as it may," Thrace said after he cleared his thoughts. "Perhaps the _domina's_ anger is not directed at the fact that you had sex with another woman, but at the specific woman you slept with."

Rome tilted his head in confusion.

"I do not follow you," he said.

"He means she's angry that you went to bed with Egypt," said Germania. "Of all the nations, you had to take _that_ woman to bed."

"What's wrong with Egypt?!"

"Have you even paid the least bit of attention to the mess her government is in right now? How about the rising bankruptcy Egypt has been facing?"

"No wonder Sabine is so angry," said Thrace. "She's worried Egypt will get her hooks in you and convince you to put your wife aside in favor of her."

"What?" said Rome. "Don't say such ridiculous things. My wife and I may have our problems, but there's not a chance that I'd ever let anyone take her place. Even someone as attractive as Egypt…or Greece…or Pontus."

Neither Germania nor Thrace looked convinced. While neither of them had met Egypt, they knew of her by reputation; she was an ancient empire twice as old as Greece and was not handling her days of declining power very well. Sabine had barely tolerated Greece's presence in the household, as the woman held no authority outside of tutoring the younger residents of the palace and of being Rome's 'female companion' to events that respectable married women like Sabine wouldn't be caught dead at. Pontus also remained in Sabine's good graces due only to her circumstances – she was a recent addition to the empire as a client kingdom, incredibly bitter about losing to Rome, and kept insisting that Rome couldn't sleep with her because she was a tributary and _not_ a slave and she was already happily married to Bithynia.

But Rome messing around with Egypt was just asking for trouble.

Germania and Thrace said nothing. No matter how hard they tried to dissuade Rome from such a colossally bad idea, the lusty fool would do whatever he wanted without considering how it would affect others. Sabine, it seemed, was the first of Rome's 'romances' doomed by his own selfishness and poor forethought. Germania and Thrace felt sorry for Sabine and the pain Rome would inevitably put her through with his latest dalliance and they only hoped he didn't take it too far.

The last thing this household needed was to be split apart because Rome couldn't keep his toga on.

* * *

**Author's Note****: Yep. Grandpa Rome had a wife that he got via kidnapping. And here's where I start singing the song "Sobbin' Women" from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers which was based on the Roman legend of the "Rape of the Sabine Women" (with 'rape' meaning 'carrying off' not 'sexual assault').**

**Having Romulus's wife Hersilia be the one to abduct him, rather than the other way around, is just my little creative twist on what happened. Romulus seems to have had the fewest problems sorting out the whole forced marriage deal, considering he instantly conceded to Hersilia when she begged him not to kill the Sabine men when they tried to take the women back and how Hersilia was transformed into a goddess when Romulus ascended to be a god because the goddess Juno was so moved by Hersilia's tears when she thought her husband was dead that she allowed Hersilia to stay with Romulus forever. Romulus was also able to convince the Sabine women to marry their kidnappers by promising them civic and property rights and assuring them that the marriages would only take place with the women's consent.**

**Romans actually had strict laws against rape, and rapists often met with severe punishment. Of course, these laws only extended to free people. Slaves were not protected against sexual assault, unless the attack was done by someone other than their masters – in which case, it depended on if their masters cared enough to sue for "property damage."**

**If Rome comes across as a bit of an asshole, bear in mind that his views are actually a watered-down and somewhat less asinine version of the mindset of Roman society (which was heavily focused on men sticking their dicks into just about anything to prove how manly they were – as long as it wasn't someone else's wife or a freeborn boy, which were big no-nos).**

**For those who don't know, Thrace makes up what is largely modern-day Bulgaria. **

**The Romans found Germans to be strange as they were not big on loose sexual behavior. Also, the Romans thought it was weird that the Germans didn't really let forty-something-year-old men marry twelve-year-old girls like the rest of the Roman world did – 'shockingly,' the Germans figured it was better to have men and women get married in their late teens to mid-twenties…which thus prompts basically every Mediterranean culture to just stare blankly as the concept fails to register.**

**We also see hints of a future chapter I'm going to write about Rome's misadventures with Egypt (in other words, how Rome screws up his marriage even more by doing exactly the opposite of what he said he would). Three guesses which Egyptian ruler is going to be responsible for these shenanigans.**


	3. Zaffa

**Now for a bit of more recent history. 'Recent,' in this case, being 1958.**

Zaffa

It was a hot morning in early January and Egypt idly wiped his brow with his sleeve. Even his keffiyeh began to feel itchy and he had to resist the nervous impulse to scratch his head; he was in public, after all, and he doubted President Nasser – who was standing patiently beside him – would appreciate such a disruption from the dignified picture they presented.

"They are running late," the president grumbled in disapproval. He stamped out the cigarette he had finished smoking and immediately lit up another, causing Egypt to wrinkle his nose at the smell. "It is quite rude of them to keep us waiting."

"They were probably unavoidably detained," said Egypt. "Which route did they choose?"

"I believe al-Bizri said they wanted to keep their distance from the Suez Canal at the moment, so I doubt they will be coming here by way of the Ismailia Canal."

Egypt could understand their hesitance to travel through the Suez. Israel and his supporters in the west had been causing a few problems in that area since Egypt claimed the canal. As much trouble as it had caused, it was worth it to see France have such an epic meltdown over the crisis (Egypt had even heard rumors that France had actually begged England to marry him so that he could pay off the debts he'd racked up from the situation). Anything that made France bawl like a little girl or ruffled England's feathers elicited a warm, fuzzy feeling in Egypt's heart – after all, one doesn't go through about a century of forced occupation, oppression, and cultural decline without coming out at least a tiny bit bitter.

"Are you nervous, Gupta?" President Nasser said after a lengthy silence. There was a note of paternalistic concern in his voice. "You know I would not be asking this of you if I did not believe it was in your best interest."

"I am perfectly fine, sir," said Egypt. "I have the utmost faith in you."

"This alliance will be a difficult one. Even _I_ am not entirely confident it will work."

"It is a chance we must take if we hope to begin a push towards a united Arab world."

"That is my wish, too, Gupta. You know I will be there with you through this process. It cannot be easy for you to make such a change, but I will do everything within my power to help you."

Egypt had to admit, of all his leaders in the last couple hundred years, he liked Nasser the most.

They only had to wait another twenty minutes before the steamer pulled into view, a flag on the vessel denoting its place of origin as Syria. Egypt shifted a bit on his feet as the ship docked and the ramp was set for the passengers to disembark. A team of stern-looking men in crisp military uniforms were the first to exit, hailing President Nasser as they descended into the vibrant Cairo port. Finally, behind the group of men, a young woman followed, with a few attendants carrying her luggage.

She was dressed in a black abayah and niqāb. She was not very tall, but Egypt could tell that she was a bit lanky beneath her heavy clothing. Her dark eyes peered at him through the opening in her veil and Egypt couldn't help but feel as though he was being inspected.

"President Nasser, thank you so much for receiving us," said the leader of the group of men. Egypt recognized him as Afif al-Bizri, the chief of staff for the Syrian Army. "Please, please, let us get right to business. We have little time to waste."

* * *

Egypt kept his gaze locked with Syria's as they sat across from each other at a small table. Egypt casually sipped a cup of mint tea while his boss continued to negotiate with al-Bizri and the Syrian delegation. It had been a month since negotiations began and the Syrian delegation was beginning to crack. Even Syria's president and prime minister had arrived to add their opinions to the mix.

"You call a dissolution of the political parties and withdrawing the military from politics 'fair terms'?" one of the delegates protested.

"And a plebiscite," said Nasser. "Do not forget the plebiscite."

"No, no, the plebiscite we are fine with," another Syrian delegate said – this one was Syria's Foreign Minister al-Bitar. "We will not argue with you on the plebiscite. But we are concerned about these other conditions. After all, we are simply interested in what will be best for Amira."

Syria raised a brow and threw a subtle look at the man.

"You are the ones who decided to approach me about Gupta," said Nasser. "I will not allow my nation to settle for anything less than the terms I have provided in that contract."

"This is extortionate," said yet another delegate; Egypt recognized him as Syria's Prime Minister al-Azem. "You cannot expect us to agree to this. It is an insult."

"If you do not like it, _there_ is the door." Nasser pointed to the door behind them. "Please close it on your way out."

"This is tantamount to a coup," Syria's President al-Quwatli said through gritted teeth. "I will be forced to leave my position and hand all power over to you."

Nasser just blinked and continued to watch him with an even expression until al-Quwatli huffed and scowled at the man who had once been his ally.

"Fine," he said. "I find this entire business disgusting and degrading, but I have little choice. It is either this or my country will be abandoned to the Communists."

"Very well," said Nasser. "Now that that is settled, let us discuss the dowry."

This was, by far, the strangest tulba to ever occur in the Arab world, in Egypt's opinion.

* * *

The khutubah wasn't any less strange or awkward than the tulba had been. Egypt could feel the weight of dozens of pairs of eyes resting on him as he withdrew a small, velvet-covered box and opened it to reveal a set of rings. Egypt hesitated when he looked up and met Syria's gaze – still inscrutable and unnerving.

At his side, his faithful dog, Anubis, nudged him and Egypt remembered he had a duty to fulfil. He approached Syria, who offered her right hand to him, and he placed one of the rings on her right-hand ring finger. He then handed her the second ring, which she placed on Egypt's right-hand ring finger. Wedding rings were not really traditional in the Arab world, but had become more common in recent years thanks to the Westerners, so it was expected for the engagement ceremony.

The men of their respective governments applauded politely and then presented the final draft of the union agreement to President Nasser. Everyone then moved to the dining hall for the dinner party. It was a much simpler gathering than the actual wedding would be, but Egypt still ensured that everyone would be satisfied with the fare. He and Syria were seated side-by-side and Egypt could barely eat anything from how his stomach was tying itself in knots.

He had no idea why he kept feeling these odd things around Syria. He barely knew her at all, having only interacted with her briefly when he was being raised by Turkey. So how could it be that her mere presence made him so unsure of himself?

* * *

It was during the radwa that it really struck him.

He was overseeing the preparations for the wedding party at his house, with Syria's delegation of government officials clucking their opinions like a swarm of overprotective mother hens behind him, when the implications of everything finally registered and he fled out to the gardens.

The gardens at Egypt's house were lush and elegant, designed specifically to remind him of the gardens in his mother's house which Egypt recalled with a bittersweet nostalgia. A pond with floating lilies and lotus flowers, with fish swimming happily amongst the reeds. Date palms and fig trees and a few cedars – the latter of which were gifts from Lebanon – all surrounded him like towers of strength. Egypt found himself collapsing onto the grass and closing his eyes so he could feel the sun's warmth and hear the rustle of papyrus in the breeze.

In Egypt's mind, the word 'married' kept repeating like an ominous drumbeat.

He was getting married in a few days to a female nation he had practically-nonexistent interaction with. While they had both been part of Turkey's Ottoman Empire, Syria had resided with the female nations and Egypt had stayed solely within the areas occupied by men. Most of his time had been spent studying or running errands for Turkey or playing with Greece and Cyprus; Egypt had never even thought about befriending his female neighbors because they generally kept to themselves. _Except for Lebanon, of course_, Egypt thought with a fond smile.

Things might have been different in the Byzantine Empire. Egypt had vague recollections of those couple hundred years and the young nations he befriended back then; however, that time was brief and distant, cut short as wars tore Egypt away from the Byzantine Empire and saw Egypt's mother being killed by Persia. Egypt had become more withdrawn after that and clung to the few friends he really trusted.

Egypt opened his eyes as a shadow crossed over his face. Anubis was looking down at him with a concerned expression – well, as concerned as a dog could look, at any rate.

"I do not even know what I am doing, Anubis," Egypt said to his pet. "I had never even considered marriage a possibility."

"Woof!" Anubis replied.

"It's not like any of my friends have experience with this sort of thing. Greece is more interested in cats than other people, Cyprus is too busy trying to keep Greece and Turkey from killing each other to bother with romantic relationships, and Palestine…I don't even want to know what Palestine is into."

"Woof!"

"Unfortunately, Turkey and I aren't really on speaking terms right now. Besides, I doubt my bride-to-be will be pleased if I try to talk to him."

Egypt might not know much about Syria, but he did know of her seething hatred for Turkey. On the few occasions Egypt saw her when they were children, she had barged into Turkey's personal study and yelled at him about something until Turkey had his guards escort her away.

"I wonder what she's up to right now," Egypt thought aloud.

Syria was likely off purchasing furniture for the house with the generous mahr that President Nasser had granted her. It was part of the custom for the bride to use the dowry her husband-to-be's family granted her to buy furnishings for the couple's home – it was a bit of a meticulous process, as every single item purchased had to be recorded in case the couple divorced.

It felt like his space was being invaded. Some random woman he couldn't have said more than two words to would be moving into his home and rearranging everything and he would just be expected to put up with it. Egypt liked his house the way it was; he didn't _want_ things getting changed around. He certainly hoped Syria didn't mess with the older objects in his home, many of which had once belonged to his mother. Those items were of extreme sentimental value and he wouldn't tolerate having them removed.

What would his mother think of this? Ancient Egypt had a very complicated relationship with Syria's forebears. Akkad, Hittite, Assyria, and Amorite had fought heatedly with Ancient Egypt for control of the region that was now Syria, and it disturbed Egypt, somewhat, how close he and Syria had come to being siblings. Not that that would have stopped an arranged marriage between them if the pharaohs still ruled – while Egypt loved his mother and admired her history and culture, certain tendencies of her ruling elite churned his stomach.

Syria had a bit of a rebellious nature, too, from what he'd been told. While Egypt had been fairly isolated as a child, what with his mother being the property of the emperor of Rome and her right to visitors severely restricted, Syria had grown up surrounded by very active and vocal nations. Palmyra, Syria's older sister, had even launched a rebellion against Rome at the insistence of Queen Zenobia. According to reports and what Egypt had witnessed, Syria seemed to be taking after her sister in many ways.

It left Egypt feeling deeply unsettled.

* * *

A surprise visit from Egypt's old friend Palestine did little to ease Egypt's misgivings. Palestine's loud proclamations about how an Egypt-Syria union was perfect for ensuring a united Arab world and an excellent opportunity to destroy Israel were not as reassuring as he'd intended them. It got worse when Palestine insisted on hosting a sahrah for Egypt while Syria was having her gomrah.

"It will be fun, my friend," Palestine said, slinging an arm around Egypt's shoulders. "Trust me. Music, dancing, food, belly dancers, I've thought of everything."

"There will be more than enough of all four of those things at the wedding," said Egypt with visible impatience. "I do not understand the need for all this excess."

"Because it is a wedding! _Your_ wedding! It is a time to celebrate and have fun. You _do_ remember what fun is, Gupta?"

"I do, in fact. But _your_ idea of fun is a bit different to mine, Ismail."

"Come now, I've invited many of our old friends. It will be good for you to see them again."

When Palestine steered him out to the festivity in the garden, Egypt wanted to run up to his room and curl up with a cup of tea and a book and not come out again. Palestine had, indeed, invited their old crowd. Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Oman, Afghanistan, Armenia, Azerbaijan, Cyprus, Yemen, and Kuwait were all from their old circle of male nations in the Arab or Near Eastern world (the female nations were absent, as a sahrah was a men-only event). Palestine had also invited a few of Egypt's friends from other corners of the world, such as Greece, India, and even Japan.

It certainly meant a lot to Egypt that so many countries had come to offer their congratulations and support during such a stressful time, but he couldn't fight that bitter taste in his mouth about the whole thing. At least Turkey wasn't there; Egypt already knew there was going to be trouble when he saw Saudi Arabia.

"My deepest and sincerest felicitations to you on your approaching nuptials, my friend," said Saudi Arabia in that deep, officious tone he always used. "I trust I am finding you in good health and good spirits at this time, especially with all the trouble you have had in the last few years."

"Thank you, Abdullah," Egypt said, hoping to cut his greeting off there. Saudi Arabia had a tendency to go on for ages when greeting people. "I am very well. Everything is perfectly fine."

But Saudi Arabia paid this dismissal no heed and continued on as if Egypt hadn't said anything.

"And I am certainly delighted that at least one of you young men is taking a wife and settling down," he said. "You always were the most mature of the younger generation."

Kuwait, Yemen, and Oman all turned indignant looks towards the senior Arab nation.

"And Syria is a fine girl, I promise you," Saudi Arabia added. "To be honest, though, I always thought you would end up with Lebanon."

"Then let us be thankful he had the good sense to choose a more modest wife, Abdullah," Iraq chimed in, earning a disapproving look from Saudi Arabia. While the two were not outright enemies, things were noticeably tense between them. "Much as we all care for Jabira, you have to admit she has started to become far too liberal-minded."

"You say that as if it is a bad thing," Afghanistan added. "Is there something wrong with young Lebanon choosing to embrace the modern world?"

Egypt breathed a quiet sigh of relief when Afghanistan chose to join the conversation. He was something of a peace-maker among the nations of the Middle East. Despite the fracturing alliances and bitter feelings brewing between many of the nations present, Afghanistan had somehow managed to stay on good terms with most everyone.

But Egypt was thankful for his appearance for another reason than saving Egypt from having to hear Iraq and Saudi Arabia start up a very controversial line of discussion. The fact was that, when Saudi Arabia mentioned Lebanon, Egypt began to feel a bit flustered.

Of the few female nations whom Egypt could claim an acquaintance with, Lebanon was the only one he considered himself particularly close with. She was a bit of a wild young woman with lots of plans for improving the world – she'd always had a bit more freedom than many of Turkey's other territories, certainly more than Syria. Lebanon flaunted a lot of rules, even spending most of her time around male nations (which was how Egypt became friends with her – they shared a strong cultural tie that even went back to the days of their respective parents), but few were willing to criticize her for them – except for Iraq and Saudi Arabia, who thought of themselves as older brothers to most of the Middle Eastern countries.

"Come now, my brothers," Afghanistan continued. "We are in the latter half of the twentieth century. I think it is wonderful that Jabira is able to live her life to the fullest, now."

"I wish she would at least keep a headscarf on," Saudi Arabia said with a grumble. "I saw her walking around in public with no covering on her head…and with short hair! It's positively indecent! Syria certainly wouldn't act in such a scandalous manner."

"No, Amira knows where to draw the line," said Iraq. "She was always more attentive to tradition than Jabira."

Egypt was starting to wonder if they had forgotten he was there as Saudi Arabia and Iraq kept comparing the qualities of Syria and Lebanon. Afghanistan shot him a subtle look and Egypt realized he had been creating a diversion so Egypt could make his escape. Egypt nodded slightly to Afghanistan and slipped into the crowd.

He passed by Oman, who seemed on the verge of a panic-attack. The poor fellow never was very good with large groups of people, being as shy as he was. Yemen and Kuwait were arguing loudly about something, but their specific Arabic dialects were getting heavier the louder they got, so Egypt couldn't tell what they were saying.

Egypt managed to make it to his non-Arab friends and smiled softly as he approached. Greece was passed out on a bench, Japan was taking pictures of everything, India was dancing to the music, and Cyprus was simply sitting quietly beside Greece. It was Cyprus who noticed Egypt first and waved him over.

"I wondered when you were coming to see us," he said.

"Sorry," said Egypt. "Saudi Arabia tends to get very chatty, especially when Iraq is around."

"Just be thankful the girls cannot come to this party, or Iran would have a few things to say of her own."

"Please tell me she isn't coming to the wedding." Egypt felt a trickle of sweat down his face.

"That is what we have heard," India chimed in, not stopping his elegant dancing as the music continued. "Iran, Lebanon, Bahrain…"

"Oh, dear Allah, this is a disaster waiting to happen."

"How do you think _I _feel?" India added. "Your bride-to-be also invited Pakistan. The last thing I want to see is that vicious demon's ugly face."

"India-san, you surely do not mean that?" said Japan, lowering his camera. "You and Pakistan-san were married for several hundred years. You must have _some_ fond thoughts of her?"

"East Pakistan maybe…but _West_ Pakistan? Anything good I felt for her died with the Raj. I cannot begin to express how horrible things got between us right at the end. Personally, I blame England for it. Most of my problems seem to be his fault."

"You cannot keep blaming England when things go wrong for you, India," said Cyprus. "He's not that bad…sort of."

"Three words: _East India Company_."

"Maybe we shouldn't talk about such depressing things at this time," a soft voice interjected. Greece sat up from his lax pose and blinked at them with his misty gaze. "After all, Gupta is getting married. We shouldn't burden him with things like this."

"He should know what he could be in for," said India. "Marriages do not work out well for nations, most of the time. And divorce gets very messy when your people decide to declare war after your former spouse refuses to respect your custody claims."

The fight over Jammu and Kashmir was still going strong, it seemed. Egypt definitely hoped his union with Syria didn't go _that_ disastrously wrong.

But he wasn't going to hold his breath.

* * *

While not an exclusively female tradition (indeed, in some places, both the bride and groom were meant to attend together) the gomrah, or "henna night," was a celebration largely reserved for the women of the wedding party. Egypt knew he was taking a huge social and political risk, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him. His sahrah had gotten very stressful and emotionally draining for him; to the point that he went out to get some fresh air and wandered in the direction of Syria's gomrah. His desire to know something – _anything_, really – about his future wife had boiled over until he couldn't resist taking the chance to observe her from a safe distance whilst she was in the company of people she could be open about herself with.

The women were having the gomrah party at a private house that was being loaned to the Syrian delegation. Using a bit of athletic skill, Egypt climbed the garden wall and quietly dropped into the foliage to watch the proceedings.

The female nations were enjoying refreshments and music, much like the men at the sahrah were, and had crowded around a single figure in familiar black clothes.

"Come on, Amira, it's only us here," one of the women said encouragingly. She was a short, round-faced young woman with narrow, brown eyes and long, brown hair. By her voice, he recognized her as Bahrain.

Egypt's eyes widened as he realized he was looking at his female associates and neighbors without their normal veils and covers. His face burned red with embarrassment that he was intruding in such a way, but he couldn't quite bring himself to avert his eyes as he finally saw the faces of Bahrain, Qatar, Iran, and Pakistan.

That was when he caught sight of Lebanon and his heart began to speed up a bit. She had, indeed, cut her dark brown hair short, as Saudi Arabia had said, and it was now messy and windswept, framing her olive-toned face in a pleasant way that highlighted her thin, delicate features. Her clothing was more modern, too, and she was wearing that little necklace with a pendant shaped like a tiny tree. Her grey eyes glinted as she playfully caught her neighbor Syria by the end of her veil and skipped about her to remove the fabric before Syria could tug it back into place.

That was when Egypt caught sight of his bride-to-be's face for the first time.

She looked a good deal like Lebanon. They had the same soft skin and dark hair, though Syria's hair was noticeably longer and straighter than Lebanon's. Syria's features seemed sharper and more pointed than Lebanon's, too, which did not help the sternness of her unsmiling face.

"Jabira, give me back my veil," Syria said in a warning tone.

"Not happening, Amira," Lebanon replied with a cheeky smirk. "This is your gomrah and we want to be able to make sure you look perfect for your wedding."

"Just humor us, Amira," said a curvy, black-haired woman whom Egypt realized was Iran. She had a smooth, sultry way of speaking that was unmistakable. "We're all friends here."

"Parisa is right," said another woman, one whom Egypt recognized as Pakistan. "We are here for a Henna Night and, therefore, a Henna Night we shall have."

The female nations managed to get Syria into a chair and began inspecting her hands and feet. Qatar and Bahrain both giggled and decided Syria needed to have her nails done, too. Syria seemed to have a dislike of being touched, as she kept trying to pull away from Qatar and Bahrain as they manicured her fingernails. Once Qatar and Bahrain were satisfied, Pakistan and Iran began to work on the mehndi designs with the henna paste. Pakistan appeared to be the main artist in the group, as she did the more elaborate parts of the designs while Iran added the smaller, simpler details.

Lebanon, not otherwise preoccupied, decided to keep Syria distracted from her situation by striking up a conversation.

"So, I bet you're really excited to be marrying Egypt, right, Amira?" she said.

"It is not as if I had much of a choice in the matter," Syria answered calmly. "But he seems decent enough."

Egypt was not sure how to take that somewhat backhanded compliment.

"Oh, come now," said Lebanon. "Gupta is a sweetheart. At least, from what I remember of him."

Something in Syria's eyes flickered.

"You are on a first-name basis with my future husband, Jabira?" she said.

"Well, we were friends as children," Lebanon said, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly. "I think he's a wonderful person. I just wanted to make sure you knew that…seeing as you are marrying him."

"To be honest with you, I have some reservations about this alliance. While I admire what Egypt has been doing in recent decades and the work his boss is doing, I do not like the idea of binding myself to a man I have never really met as a person."

"Oh, but I'm _sure_ you'll like Egypt! He may come off as a bit aloof when you first meet him, but he's actually very personable. He's a very caring soul and I know he still holds a deep respect for his mother. He likes making things, too…pots and sculptures and little things. Sometimes, I find it hard to tell the difference between the things he makes and the actual antiquities his mother's people left behind."

Egypt felt that warmth in his chest and his face again.

"As you say, Jabira," said Syria. "But I shall reserve judgement until I have the chance to speak with him. Our respective bosses have not allowed for us to have so much as a single conversation."

It was at least reassuring to know that Syria had the same concerns about the circumstances of their marriage as Egypt, himself. The more he watched, the more comfortable Egypt felt about the arrangement. Syria was a real person beneath the veil and the political façade. Egypt found out a few things of note about her, which he mentally filed away for future reference. As she interacted with her friends, Egypt realized that Syria was not as gruff and harsh as she had initially struck him. She seemed to be a lively soul, but restrained by a clear sense of caution and wariness. Just by the way she moved, her eyes occasionally darting in search of some potential threat, he could tell she was burdened by fears which her friends couldn't detect.

Egypt could respect that, but he also felt a pang of sympathy for Syria that life had made her so afraid.

* * *

Egypt felt his stomach clench as Palestine and Afghanistan carried him on their shoulders as the wedding party made their noisy procession through the neighborhood to the nearest mosque. His friends were singing boisterously and many of the human guests were dancing to the riotous music in true Dumiyati style. Egypt was wearing an elegant set of clothes his friends had bought for him after they saw, to their disappointment, that Egypt's nicest clothes did not quite measure up to their standards for something as important as a wedding.

Gone were the plain whites and browns of Egypt's regular wardrobe. A fine thawb in a pale – almost gold – tan shade had replaced his rough work clothes. Saudi Arabia had also gifted him a fine bisht (a ceremonial cloak) in black with gold trim. They'd even bought him a new keffiyeh, just because they thought it would be in poor taste for him to wear an old one with his fancy new clothes.

"I am sure there is a proverb about it," Saudi Arabia had insisted. "I cannot recall the passage, right now, but I am certain it is proscribed by the Prophet _somewhere_."

Still, for all the support he'd received from everyone, Egypt couldn't fight the fit of nerves as they arrived at the mosque to meet Syria and her delegates for the wedding ceremony and official merging of the two nations.

Egypt swayed a bit as his friends set him down and his feet hit the cool marble floor of the mosque. The pit was still open at the bottom of his stomach and he wasn't certain how he managed to make his way inside the mosque while his procession waited outside – still proclaiming their cheer to the heavens.

The group for the official ceremony was small and private. Just Egypt, President Nasser, Syria, Syria's president and prime minister, and the Imam.

Egypt had to admit that Syria looked quite radiant in her wedding clothes. Instead of the heavy black she wore when he had seen her, she was dressed in rich scarlet which had been delicately embroidered with gold. Egypt was surprised to see that she was wearing a normal hijab, rather than the face-concealing niqāb – perhaps she was not as shy about showing her face now that Egypt was in no position to walk out on her.

There was a small table with a pen and the marriage contract on it. The weight of those gazes had never felt as heavy as they did when Egypt reached for that pen.

A thousand thoughts swam through Egypt's head. Was this the right choice? Would he be able to look after Syria? Would his and Syria's marriage be happy? Would they be able to coexist as both nations and a couple? What if everything went wrong and they ended up declaring war on each other? What would Egypt's mother say?

And on it went. Egypt hoped that no one noticed how his hand trembled as he wrote his name. He tried to focus on the little sermon the Imam was giving on the importance of marriage and respect for one's spouse and the respective duties of a husband and wife. Egypt felt numb as he passed the pen to Syria, who signed with a much steadier hand than his.

With the contract signed, Egypt and Syria moved each other's ring from the right hand to the left. With a final prayer from the Imam, Egypt pressed a gentle kiss to Syria's forehead.

* * *

The two of them were seated side-by-side on matching throne-like chairs at the reception. It was a tradition that the bride and groom be seated as if they were the queen and king of the party. The festivities had been going for about five hours – Egypt could tell because Syria, in accordance with her own traditions, was obliged to change into a different wedding dress every hour (everyone would know the party was over when she put on a white dress).

Egypt was thankful that the guests managed to behave themselves, even when faced with nations or humans they bore a strong animus towards. He thought there might be particular trouble with Iran and Saudi Arabia or India and Pakistan, but the individuals clearly went out of their way to avoid each other like the plague.

"Thank Allah for small mercies," Egypt thought aloud.

"I'm sorry?" Syria said, looking at him in confusion.

"What? Oh, my apologies. I was merely thinking that it's a good thing some of our friends are being proactive in avoiding each other…you know, considering…" Egypt's voice trailed off, but he could see that Syria understood his point.

"Hmm, I suppose it saves us the work of running interventions. Pakistan was particularly angry when I told her India was expected to be here."

"I can imagine." He didn't have to imagine. He'd seen it while he'd been spying on the gomrah. "It could not have been easy being split apart as they were. And I heard that East Pakistan may be planning her own separation."

"'Bangladesh' is the name I've heard suggested. She used to be Bengal before she left with Pakistan."

"India will undoubtedly support her if she does decide to break from Pakistan."

"Salima will be heartbroken if Barsha abandons her."

"It is not up to us what will happen between them. Either they will reconcile and come to an accord or there will be another independence campaign."

The newlywed couple fell into an awkward silence. Discussing the domestic issues of their friends and allies put something of a damper on the festivities for them as it put in mind the possibility of the potential for similar problems in their own life together. Egypt took a tentative bite of fattah, though the rich taste of the dish now seemed bitter on his tongue.

"Gupta…" Syria said hesitantly. "I may call you 'Gupta,' now, right?"

"It only makes sense for you to use my human name now that we're married," Egypt answered evenly. "That is, if I may call you 'Amira,' in return?"

"Of course."

"Then, what may I do for you, Amira?"

"What do you think our lives will be like within the next decade or so? I have been…_concerned_ about our future and whether this alliance between us will last."

So, she really was as worried as Egypt was. At least they were both starting this marriage off on the same page.

"I do not know," said Egypt. "I am just as unsure about all this as you are, Amira. The world we live in is not a particularly peaceful one, at the moment."

"Or ever," Syria added softly.

"I suppose so. And, truth be told, I am sorry you had to be put through this for the sake of your people. It cannot have been easy…marrying someone you hardly know…" His voice got very quiet as he said those last words, but Syria heard him.

"It has not been easy, no," she said. "But I know my duty to my people. My government saw this as the best option to keep my people safe and provided for. I have a great respect for your President Nasser and his vision of a united Arab world. And…" She looked away from him. "…And, you seem to be a good soul, Gupta. I hope that, even if this union does not work, we may still consider each other friends and allies."

"I hope so, too, Amira. Even if we only have today as a husband and wife, let us, from this moment on, consider ourselves bound by friendship."

Syria looked back up at him with a small smile which Egypt returned. The two of them then turned back to watch the celebrations around them. They could allow themselves to enjoy the joyous atmosphere, if only for an instant. Today was about more than just them – today was about the nations and people who had come to see their union and enjoy the festivities. For the ones they truly cared about, Egypt and Syria could permit themselves to be happy for a few hours.

* * *

**Author's Note****: Egypt and Syria's merger as the United Arab Republic lasted from 1958 until 1961. **

**A 'zaffa' is a traditional wedding procession in many Arabic wedding rites. It is supposedly derived from a pre-Islamic practice in Egypt.**

**President Gamal Abdel Nasser was one of (if not **_**the**_**) most famous of Egypt's presidents. Many Egyptians regard him as something of a cultural icon and hero, so I tried to be as respectful in my portrayal of him as possible. He counts as a historical figure, right? I know Fanfiction has rules about which real people you can use in your fics and they can only be 'historical' figures (that's pretty vague, though - when is someone considered 'historical'? When they're dead or what?).**

**Everyone remember the Hetalia episode where France was trying to force England to sign that marriage certificate after the Suez Canal Crisis left him bankrupt and he needed a quick bailout? Well, this chapter is basically what was going on at the same time with Egypt, the nation responsible for France's plight.**

**I actually enjoyed writing the 'engagement' scene because Egypt's and Syria's bosses were acting like a bunch of fussy old mothers negotiating a betrothal contract.**

**Here's the different parts of a traditional Arab wedding which I showed. As always, please correct me on any errors. I had to glean what I could on Muslim wedding customs and the wedding traditions of Egypt and Syria, as well as Arab customs. **

**Tulba – formal betrothal.**

**Khutubah (Egyptian/Levant term) – engagement ceremony.**

**Radwa – men on both sides of the family make sure everything is set up for the wedding party.**

**Gomrah (Henna Night) – bachelorette party (sort of) where the bride gets her hands painted with henna.**

**Sahrah – bachelor party where the groom can have non-family friends come to celebrate his wedding.**

**Dumiyati – a type of zaffa popular in northern Egypt.**

**Also, note to self: Write a chapter that isn't focused on marriage. I swear, I don't even really like romance stories. Why in hell do I keep writing romance/marriage in my Hetalia stuff? And cut back on 'awkward silence' moments.**


	4. Oracle Bones

**Now, let us turn our gaze further eastward.**

**Warning: Death and weird, supernatural stuff.**

Oracle Bones

Xia tilted her straw hat down when the sun glare began to bother her eyes as she strolled up the narrow dirt road towards a small village in the distance.

She had been walking for many days, now. It did not bother her much as she spent most of her time traveling from one region to another to visit her children. They were getting stronger as the years went by and, while she was proud of them, Xia was also concerned at how much they disagreed with each other. Each one believed he or she was most suited to governing the others – her eldest son, Zhou, was being especially willful and had even been so disrespectful as to turn his own mother away when she came to see him.

Of course, considering her present condition, he was probably acting out of petty, childish jealousy of the nation Xia was carrying inside her.

Her hands drifted down to the growing bump on her stomach beneath the red fabric of her dress. It was for her youngest child's sake that she was journeying this far afield. She did not want to risk her purpose being discovered or anything she might learn getting back to her older children should it prove too distressing.

The scent of springtime blossoms wafted on the breeze and Xia heard the gentle burbling of a small mountain stream. She passed by a few humans on her way, mostly carrying farming tools or steering cattle down to the fields which they had sown further downhill where the land was actually serviceable for raising crops. The humans smiled and nodded to her as she passed, perhaps sensing who she was – Xia had noticed that pastoral peoples were more attuned to their nations than those who lived in cities.

Finally, she reached the little village with its small, rickety structures, most of which were made of beams of bamboo – though a few of the more important buildings were made of wood (the villagers must have traveled quite a distance to get the timber, as this particular area had a notable dearth of trees). Passing through the unkempt marketplace, Xia looked around for someone reliable to begin her inquiry.

After finding a village elder and asking directions, Xia was pointed towards a modest house in the central part of the village. She walked briskly to the structure and, taking a steadying breath, brushed aside the covering over the doorway and entered.

Xia immediately found herself engulfed in a heady cloud of incense. It was near impossible to see, save for thin slits of light passing through openings between the bamboo walls and the flickers of flame on the incense sticks. Not able to find her way easily in the fog, Xia found herself bumping into clanking, jingling objects which dangled from the ceiling – likely talismans or ceremonial gear of one sort or another.

"Hello," Xia called into the gloom. "I have come for a reading. I have brought payment-"

"I know why you are here," a raspy voice answered. "Come forward. You have nothing to fear from me."

Xia approached with a deep apprehension despite the assurances from the human. She reached out a hand through the smoke as a precaution and managed to navigate to the back of the house, steering herself around a bamboo screen which served to separate the little corner from the rest of the structure. A shriveled old woman sat before a small hearth, her wrinkled face scrunched up as she meditated. Her snowy hair was twisted into long braids beneath a cloth cap and her soot-smudged robe stood in dark contrast with the bright rows of necklaces she wore.

"Please," the old woman said, not opening her eyes. "Take the stool, there, to sit on. It will be better for you in your condition than kneeling or sitting on the floor."

"Thank you," Xia said, moving the little stool over and taking her place across from the old woman.

The room was stifling now, as Xia could feel the cloying scent of the incense sticking to her skin and the hot breath of the fire made her start to sweat beneath her heavy layers of clothing.

"I have come to ask for your counsel," Xia said solemnly.

"I already told you, Lady Jiang, I know exactly why you are here," said the old woman.

"But…I never told you my name."

"You did not have to. Nor did you have to tell me you are also known as 'Xia' for our current ruling family, though your true name has been lost in the last thousand years."

Xia tensed as the extent of this human's power became clear.

"You seek to know the future for your unborn child," the woman continued. With her eyes still shut, she drew a basket over and handed it across the hearth to Xia. "Take a bone from the basket and throw it on the fire."

Xia reached her hand into the basket and pulled out a bone, a scapula from a bull unless she was mistaken. The bone had been carved with characters which Xia read as being a single question: '_What will my child be?_' She then tossed the bone onto the fire where it steadily began to crack in the heat of the flames. That was when the old woman's eyes shot open and Xia found herself staring into the glassy gaze of near-blind eyes laden with cataracts.

"I foresee a mighty kingdom in your youngest son," the old woman prophesied. "Thousands of years, he shall rule a land united. He shall become a power in the world that few can rival and the legacy of his people shall extend across an ocean."

Xia felt her heart beat rapidly in her chest at the fortuitous destiny of her son.

"But," Xia's spirits began to sink at that one word from the fortuneteller, "I also see much sorrow for him. For though he shall unite the kingdoms under his rule, he shall also bring the deaths of his brothers and sisters. He will be your last child, Lady Jiang, and he will soon after replace even you."

Xia felt her heart shatter at that pronouncement. Her son would destroy her and her other children. She dared not even consider trying to prevent such things from coming to pass. Xia had learned long ago that attempting to escape a prophecy will only expedite it. There was no way out. Her years were numbered.

"He will be alone for many years," the old woman continued. "And he shall take others as his family, though they are not his to claim. And these, also, he shall bring much pain to, though it is not his desire. Ever he will try to act with only the best of intentions, but I see an ocean of blood and tears upon his hands. And many scars upon his body from many ages of betrayals by those he trusts. And he shall sow the seeds of his own destruction, his mind and soul and body rent apart by his own folly. He shall be knowledgeable, but without understanding. He shall be strong, but lacking in compassion. And though spirits protect him, he shall be blind to their presence and counsel."

Xia hadn't even noticed she was crying, at first, but tears streamed down her face like twin rivers. She wished she had never come to this place. It would have been better to remain in ignorance rather than learn such terrible truths about her unborn son.

"And what will his fate be?" Xia asked, pleading, fearful for her son's ultimate doom. "Is he to die as I shall? Will he be totally destroyed?"

"That, I cannot say," said the old woman. "Things have become clouded and I cannot see what lies beyond the next four thousand years. His path twists and turns, always. And I fear most of all for those close to him, as I see a period of madness that could destroy any nations so unfortunate as to be under his control. I am sorry, but that is all I can tell you."

With trembling hands, Xia gave the fortuneteller a small satchel of cowry shells as payment for her services. She was shaking as she rose to her feet and stumbled back outside. The fresh air pierced sharp and cold through her lungs like icy water, as if she were drowning. Her hands came back up to rest on her stomach where she felt her son kick. Where once such a gesture might have filled Xia with joy, now she only felt dread and a sick, churning sensation inside that was more than just the typical queasiness of pregnancy. She feared going back to face her older children, for how could she even look them in the eyes knowing what she did about their brother's destiny to destroy them?

* * *

She couldn't continue making excuses when Han arrived to meet her with an entire entourage to escort his 'esteemed mother' to his home for the final month of her pregnancy. Han was a minor state of little note, often bullied by his older brothers Jin and Zhou, but he was devoted to his mother and ensured her comfort in his home.

When the time came and her youngest son was born, Xia watched on in silent guilt as Han doted on his baby brother.

"I will protect him, Mother," Han said. "I promise you, I will make sure nothing bad ever happens to my little brother. Even if I should be asked to give my life for his."

Xia wanted to weep loudly and bitterly at the vow. Such innocent, brotherly love given so freely without comprehension that he would one day be called on to fulfill his oath. Xia couldn't bear to tell Han the truth; even if she did, she doubted he would really understand the direness of the situation. Han had so far remained mostly untouched by war and was not yet as grim and jaded as his siblings.

It simply was not fair.

* * *

Qin was battered, bruised, and bleeding as the Han soldiers dumped him into a cell. Over and over in his head, he cursed himself for his stupidity. He had thought he had done everything right. His king was ten-times the leader that Han's was, and yet he had lost. Qin was little more than a child, still, and he was about to die now that Han had seized the empire which Qin Shi Huang had built. Qin still looked back with regret on what he had had to do to his siblings when unifying the kingdoms – he had tried to console himself for years that he had only ever acted in the family's best interests.

Alone in his cell, condemned to either fade away or be executed directly, Qin began to sob. He had so much he wanted to achieve, things he knew he was destined to create. His end couldn't possibly be dying in obscurity in a prison cell. He buried his face in the worn, red silk of his sleeves and grieved for himself until he passed out from exhaustion.

He was awoken sometime later by the creaking of his cell door. Doing his best to wipe the grime from his face (he may die, but he would die looking as respectable as he could), Qin looked up to see his brother Han enter and approach him. Qin shrank fearfully back until he found himself pressed against the cold stone wall of his cell.

Han cut an impressive figure in his fine silk robes of pale blue, richly embroidered with images of dragons, and his dark brown hair pulled up in an elegant topknot. His brown eyes watched Qin with an unreadable expression until, as he drew closer, they softened. Han knelt beside Qin and placed a comforting hand on his trembling brother's shoulder.

"It is all right, Yao," Han said, using Qin's human name. "I will not harm you, Brother."

Qin looked back up at him, but continued to shake in the presence of the older brother he had warred so violently against. Han sighed and, gently, pulled Qin into his arms and held him as the boy once again broke into pained sobs.

"I am sorry, Brother," Qin hiccupped through his tears. "I am so, so sorry."

"Shh, shh, it will all be all right," said Han. "I made a promise when you were born that I would do anything to protect you. I am here to fulfill that promise."

"W-what? What d-do you m-mean?"

"Your kingdom is destroyed, Brother, and, because of that, you will die. But…but I have discovered a way to keep you alive."

"What? How?"

"It will come at a cost, but I am prepared to pay it."

"H-Han? What is going on? What are you saying?"

"You have nothing to fear, Yao. You will be alive and you won't have to remember any of this."

Qin's eyes widened as Han held him tighter and a strange light began to fill the room. Qin clung to Han and began screaming for answers. Why wasn't Han answering him? What was he doing?

_No, no, stop, Brother, don't!_ _Don't leave me!_

Han China blinked in confusion. What was he doing in this cell? Had he been speaking to someone?

The young boy brushed the dust off his silk robes, hoping the dirt in the room hadn't smudged the pale blue fabric. He banged his fist on the cell door and ordered the guard to let him out as he had to meet with Emperor Gaozu and it was rude to keep the emperor waiting. As he exited the room, Han China glanced back and wondered what he was doing in a cell that had nothing in it but a pile of old, dirty, red silk robes in it.

* * *

**Author's Note****: And thus, our old buddy China is born and we all know how that turned out. Yes, in my interpretation, nations can physically reproduce other nations.**

'**Xia' is the name of the semi-mythical Xia dynasty of China (the first attested Chinese dynasty). As I couldn't really find a specific name for Ancient China, I just figured she would refer to herself by the name of her dynasty (she's actually much, much, **_**much**_** older than the Xia, but it's all I could think of for a pre-unification China).**

**Oracle bones are an ancient method of fortunetelling in China. Commonly associated with the Shang dynasty which immediately followed the Xia, though it likely had pre-Shang origins. In this case, I decided that it's currently a rural fortunetelling method that has not yet reached the cities which is why Xia had to travel so far.**

**Cowry shells were one of the first forms of currency in China. Copper coins didn't come about until the reign of Qin Shi Huang, who standardized the currency in unified China.**

**The Han dynasty seized control of China after the Battle of Gaixia, destroying what remained of Qin control in the empire. I had little knowledge of Chinese history when I first decided to make China the Qin kingdom (though, in my defense, 'Qin' is where we derive the name 'China' from, so it's technically still accurate). So, in order to explain Han replacing Qin as united China, I decided that Qin's brother decided to sacrifice himself to save his little brother using some kind of nation ability to, essentially, swap places with Qin and give his brother a new identity (though it cost Han his life and Qin his memories).**


	5. A Touch of Kindness

**I felt in the mood for writing one of my problematic favs, Turkey. And, thus, my Hungarian ancestors howl in outrage.**

**Warning: Brief allusions to violence.**

A Touch of Kindness

There were times when it was lonely at the top.

Being one of the most powerful empires in the world left Turkey with far more enemies than friends. Most of the European nations hated him on principle, the strongest of the Middle Eastern nations regarded him as a threat, that hulking behemoth Russia had been a relentless thorn in his side, the nations in the Far East were only interested in him for trade purposes, and even Turkey's own palace was filled with squalling territories and provinces who wanted nothing more than to launch rebellions against him.

Turkey sighed as he looked out the window, observing his lush private gardens and the sweeping view of Islambul's bustling port.

All this luxury and power had not been easily won. The city which was once called "Constantinople" had been bought by spilling the blood of someone he'd once named as a friend. Even now, in his mind's eye, Turkey could see the cold, accusing glare of the Byzantine Empire. Turkey's hands shook as he remembered driving his sword into Byzantine's stomach. He'd found him in the royal palace's chapel, praying for salvation, and had goaded his former friend into fighting him, even though Byzantine had no sword on him. The once-great empire had cursed him and ridiculed his victory, even with the blood bubbling past his lips.

"_You shall never know peace, Sadik,"_ Byzantine had said, his golden eyes glinting harshly. _"My empire may be over, but yours won't last much longer than mine. See you in Hell, traitor."_

It had been as the former empire said those last five words that little Greece had run into that chapel and watched his older brother die, with Turkey standing over the body with a sword drenched in blood. Greece had screamed and cried and pounded his little fists against Turkey, shouting that he hated him and would always hate him.

"He shouldn't have had to see that," Turkey thought aloud.

"Shouldn't have to see what?" said a soft voice.

Turkey nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise. He shot around in his seat on the plush cushions to meet the curious gaze of a little girl. It took him a moment to remember her name, but he recognized her as one of his little provinces in Europe. Kosovo, that was who she was. A tiny thing in a blue robe that was several sizes too large, with the sleeves trailing on the ground. Her wide, brown eyes staring up at him from an olive-toned face framed by dark locks of hair.

"I'm sorry, Big Brother Turkey," Kosovo said. "I did not mean to startle you."

"That is all right, Little One," Turkey replied. "Come, sit with me."

The child's face lit up with a bright smile that was missing a few baby teeth and she toddled over to one of the cushions across from him. Turkey smiled back at her and passed her a dish of sweets from the small table beside him – Kosovo's eyes widened in surprise and she eagerly accepted the treats.

"I am surprised," Turkey said as Kosovo bit into a rosewater _lokum_. "Why did you call me 'Big Brother'? None of my other territories call me that."

"Big Brother Albania said we should," Kosovo said, a white smear of powdered sugar staining the side of her mouth. "He said that you have protected and cared for us for so long, that you are our biggest brother and we should respect you as such."

Now he remembered, Albania was the hot-tempered Illyrian tribe he'd taken in centuries ago – both Kosovo and Albania were part of the Rumelia region of the Ottoman Empire. Albania had been exceedingly wary of outsiders and hadn't trusted Turkey until he'd given a solemn vow that he would look after him. Albania was one of the few well-behaved children in Turkey's care – at least, Albania was well-behaved in the sense that he did not constantly try to rebel against Turkey the way his other territories did. Turkey remembered with fondness a state banquet in which he'd had to entertain a number of nations he hated, in particular that entitled Persian shrew – Albania had been there and spilled a dish of rather greasy _köfte_ all over the woman and her fancy silks.

"You _will_ protect us, yes?" said Kosovo with a wide-eyed look of innocence. "Serbia keeps telling me that he's going to rebel and take me with him again." Her eyes began to water. "I don't want to go with him. He's always mean to me."

The little territory started to hiccup on soft sobs and Turkey, moved by a rare feeling of pity, knelt down in front of her and dried her eyes.

"Do not be sad, Little One," he said with a sincere smile. "I will protect you as best I can."

"Y-you will?"

"Of course. I would never wish for harm to come to such an adorable child." He lightly pinched her cheek, prompting her to giggle.

Kosovo then reached out for him with her tiny hands and wrapped her arms around his neck in a hug. Turkey froze at the gesture. It had been so long since he remembered anyone showing him such tenderness and unconditional affection. He had multiple parental figures throughout his life, though he'd long forgotten who his actual parent nations were. Everyone just moved in and out of his life so quickly that he'd never truly learned how to make those familial connections. He'd grown up alongside Byzantine Empire for a time, until he'd felt the call to go east where he'd discovered tribes of people with whom he felt a nation-bond. After that, he became the Seljuk Empire and began to push his people west – by that point, he'd no longer been a child and was jaded and cynical about life and the world.

Yet, it was impossible for Turkey to not feel something in his weary, lonely heart as the tiny, helpless Kosovo clung to him and looked at him as if he had hung the moon and stars in the sky. Without even realizing it, he was hugging Kosovo right back.

* * *

She followed him everywhere, lately.

When he was at official meetings, Turkey pretended not to notice the giggling little girl who would hide behind him or crawl about under the table, or even brazenly just come up and sit on his knee and scowl at anyone who questioned something Turkey had said. The child got into quite a number of glaring contests with Persia.

It also happened that, wherever Kosovo went, Albania would not be far behind.

Whenever Kosovo was hanging about Turkey during the day, Albania could be found standing somewhere nearby like a tiny guard – he once even managed to find a helmet, as well as a dagger which he kept tucked into his belt.

Albania was a feisty child, Turkey noticed. He had a somewhat mercurial nature and did not tolerate insults towards himself, his little sister, or anyone he respected. Turkey also appeared to be on Albania's list of people he cared about, as he discovered when Albania punched Serbia in the face when the brat got particularly mouthy and called Turkey a "filthy Mohammedan dog." Turkey would be lying if he said he immediately intervened and pulled Albania off Serbia before the fight could escalate.

Turkey had to admit that it was…pleasant to have Albania and Kosovo around. He'd never really noticed before how attentive they were to him, how much they looked up to him, or how many tasks and chores they willingly undertook for him…for _him_, for _Turkey_. There was none of the coldness or simmering resentment in their dark eyes, only respect and a familial devotion which, in all honesty, touched Turkey's heart.

* * *

_1689_

Albania was crying into his pillow, trying to shield his face so that Turkey couldn't see him acting so weak.

Turkey stood in the doorway, watching the child with a heavy sorrow of his own. A sorrow brought on by feelings of guilt. Guilt at his failure and disgrace. He had lost Kosovo. That sweet, innocent girl had been snatched from them by that smirking Serb and that snooty fop Austria. Serbia had turned to Austria to back a foolish bid for independence and the two of them had managed to get their greedy hands on poor little Kosovo.

It was Turkey's fault and he knew it. He had overplayed his hand. He'd been so confident after his attacks on Poland and Lithuania that he'd thought himself strong enough to march straight into Vienna to bring down the Habsburgs. His arrogance had cost him dearly.

Not only did Austria have that rebellious little brat Serbia helping him, he had allied with Poland and Lithuania, the Venetian Republic, that gargantuan maniac Russia, and even that annoying idiot Spain. To add insult to injury, Hungary had taken the opportunity to abandon her post and join with Austria's forces – Turkey had always suspected that that gender-confused hag would stab him in the back for a chance to leave his empire and rejoin her tiny holdout of a kingdom. To top it off, Transylvania had gone with her.

Turkey's other so-called allies weren't much better. Wallachia and Moldavia were only loyal to each other and were prepared to desert the instant they thought they could break their statuses as tributaries. Crimea was a miserable disappointment whose only skill was in enslaving and selling half-starved Russian and Polish serfs (a pitiful description for a nation related to the Golden Horde with the proud blood of the Tatars in his veins).

That was essentially everyone fighting on Turkey's side, other than a few loyal vassals like Albania and Kosovo – but even those could be counted on one hand. Not even his allies and neighbors to the east were interested in getting involved.

Turkey glanced back down at the trembling form of Albania and something inside of him just snapped. A burning, white-hot rage coursed through him and he grit his teeth as his resolve hardened in his heart. One way or another, he would bring Kosovo home.

* * *

_2008_

Turkey straightened his tie as he stood in the elevator. He glanced to his right where a pretty teenage girl fidgeted with her long braid and, to _her_ right, a rugged young man leaned back against the wall.

"You'll be fine, Arjana," Turkey said to the girl.

"What if I mess up?" the girl answered, her warm brown eyes staring up at him with the same quiet awe they'd always had. "What if I…what if I _can't_ be a nation?"

"Arjana, Republic of Kosovo," Turkey said firmly. "You are every bit as much a nation as I or Albania, here."

Albania smiled softly and rested a strong hand on Kosovo's shoulder.

"We will be with you every step of the way, Little Sister," he said. "Me, and Turkey, and America, and England, and France, and almost everyone."

"'_Almost_ everyone,' Bekim?" Kosovo said nervously.

"Well, that little brat Serbia obviously doesn't want you to be recognized," said Turkey. "Neither do Russia or China. I know of only a few countries who will join them, so don't worry. You have a vast majority of the United Nations on your side."

"And if anyone doesn't recognize you who said they would, I'll _make_ them acknowledge you," added Albania, curling his right hand into a fist and lightly punching it into his free hand.

Kosovo gave a watery smile and reached out either arm to pull her two big brothers into a hug. The two larger nations tried to pretend they weren't blushing at the gesture, but didn't pull away until the elevator gave a 'ding' to let them know they were on their floor. The three nations stood tall as they exited and made their way towards the conference room.

Turkey and Albania continued to flank Kosovo on either side, staring down the handful of nations who refused to sign the official recognition of their little sister's independence. Turkey knew it would be a lot of work for Kosovo to secure and maintain her independence, but he would stand by her. He always would.

All because of the little girl who showed him a touch of kindness.

* * *

**Author's Note: The city we now know as "Istanbul" was not officially renamed as such until 1930. Until that time, it was referred to either as "Islambul" or "Kostantiniyye."**

**Also, I don't think Ancient Greece became the Byzantine Empire as I believe is indicated in one of the Hetalia sources. The Byzantine Empire was very, _very_ different and was more like the bastard son of Ancient Greece and the Roman Empire (hence, what my OC Byzantine Empire is).**

**The "Persia" I mention is Iran, not to be confused with Hetalia's Persia who is Ancient Persia. **

**Köfte is a type of meatball dish. Lokum is what is more commonly known as "Turkish Delight."**

**Albania and Kosovo were historically the most loyal subjects of the Ottoman Empire; albeit with some exceptions, but most Albanians and ethnically-Albanian Kosovars were fiercely devoted to the Ottoman Empire. Kosovo was in a very tricky position, being between Albania and Serbia (as the Serbs pretty much hated the Ottoman Empire and took any chance they could to leave – as did most other vassal states), and was frequently fought over.**

**Kosovo only remained under Austria's control for a year or so during the Great Turkish War before being retaken by the Ottomans, so rest assured that Turkey made good on his promise to bring Kosovo home.**


	6. Raw Ambition

**Warning: Implied domestic abuse and rape, but nothing explicit. Victim-blaming, prejudice, and manipulation, as well.**

**Please note that none of this is meant to offend.**

Raw Ambition

Lotharingia had no intention of dying in some hovel in the middle of nowhere.

Since she was a little girl, growing up in the wilds of the Frankish homeland with her brother, she knew she was destined for more than a starving village of savage wildmen. The Frankish people were fearsome, but not strong enough to create something as vast and powerful as an empire – not while Rome still ruled the world. But anything can change if one has the drive to achieve one's goals.

She grinned viciously over a gold-plated goblet filled with expensive wine as she sat off to the side, watching her brother sit on a throne and listen to the petitions of his vassal states, as if he were the king rather than the frail human who wore the crown of the Kingdom of the Franks. Beside him, his wife kept her eyes lowered demurely to the ground.

Lotharingia almost wanted to laugh, seeing the once-mighty land of Gaul so reduced. Gaul was but a shell of her former self, the legendary scourge of Rome who had burned the city to the ground about a thousand years ago. She had been this way ever since the Kingdom of the Franks had found her where she'd been hiding from him when the Roman Empire finally fell to the swords of the mighty German tribes. As much as Gaul despised him for what he'd done to her back when the Empire was only just beginning to crumble, she feared him more – and she dared not defy him now, not when he had hold of what she valued most in this world.

A sneer spread across Lotharingia's face as she glanced at the cringing little boy who stood between two nervous young women. The mewling little bastard which Lotharingia's brother had put in Gaul's womb when he raided the village where she lived before the Fall – Gaul had named the boy "Gallia Lugdunensis," but his father now referred to him as "Neustria." The weak little brat looked the spitting image of his father, but he was a pathetic excuse for a nation who only made the Kingdom of the Franks angry with his disappointing crying and whimpering. Along with him were Gaul's two daughters, Gallia Narbonensis and Gallia Aquitania. Those two girls, despite how timid they acted, were far greater threats than their runt of a brother.

Aquitania, now "Aquitaine," was a devious little creature – she inherited her mother's beauty, but had a way of toying with male nations' affections that her mother lacked. Lotharingia knew the little witch even had young Visigoth wrapped around her finger. The older girl, Narbonensis, who was now calling herself "Provence," as if she was proud of having been a Roman territory, was more difficult to read. Like Aquitaine, Provence had male nations pawing at her skirts – though Lotharingia suspected the girl had as much interest in men as Gaul did (Gaul thought she could keep that little secret hidden, but Lotharingia knew just about everything that went on in this kingdom). Provence was wily, though, there was no doubt; she had bustling trade operations with countless foreign nations visiting her regularly.

Both the girls needed to be closely watched at all times.

"My lord," one of the attendants said to the Kingdom of the Franks. "Germania is here to see you."

"Well, don't just stand there, fool," the sovereign kingdom snapped. "Show him in!"

Lotharingia's gaze followed the solemn, heavy gait of the stern nation they considered the fatherland of the Germanic tribes. Germania, the hero who felled the proud Roman Empire, was not often seen at the Frankish court, though he sent his sons there to serve the Kingdom of the Franks. Not that he had much choice in the matter, as Lotharingia's brother had absolute authority over all these lands. Germania's sons weren't sitting idly by in their time as part of the Frankish Empire; Swabia had recently been named Captain of the Guards to their court and young Bavaria was an invaluable source of wisdom.

Germania, himself, was still as handsome as ever. Hard features, long blonde hair, and cold blue eyes. Many a female German tribe had thrown herself at his feet only to be rebuffed. He was very particular about which women he shared his bed with. His wives Suebi and Teuton were both dead and he had permitted the Veleti tribe to go back to her homeland. He'd since taken another wife, the Chatti tribe, right before they had all gone to burn Rome to the ground – the marriage was a sign of good faith to the German people, something to show that Germania was still true to his own kind. Lotharingia hadn't cared too much about it at the time, but the memory was proving vexing to her now that she had a particular goal in mind.

She watched Germania give the barest nod to the Kingdom of the Franks, and Lotharingia could see the barely-concealed ire in her brother's eyes. It had been brewing since the Fall of Rome. The Frankish tribe, now a kingdom and an empire, would never settle for anything less than the entirety of the western world and he refused to step aside and let Germania rule the united tribes as he was meant to. But Germania would not bow to him.

And that is why Lotharingia was determined to win him.

* * *

Lotharingia was walking arm-in-arm with Gaul.

They had been ordered from the room while the male nations discussed business. That was one of the many things Lotharingia hated about her brother. He'd never really had much by way of respect for women – not even for Belgica, arguably the most terrifyingly ruthless Germanic tribe of all (she had even scared Rome when he was alive). The Kingdom of the Franks had even imposed the barbaric Salic Law, something which stripped the human women of their right to own property.

"My dear brother seemed in foul spirits today, did he not, Gwenaëlle?" Lotharingia asked her sister-in-law, using Gaul's human name to place them on a more personal level than they actually were.

Gaul didn't answer, but Lotharingia felt her tense. Whenever that man was in a bad mood, his wife bore the brunt of it. She likely wouldn't be spending much time around her children for a few days; Gaul didn't want them to see the bruises he left on her, after all. Lotharingia felt it was what Gaul deserved for letting Rome take the fighting spirit out of her; if Gaul had been as strong as she once was, she would have been right there beside the victorious German hordes as they crushed the Roman vermin beneath their boots and then she would have been an equal partner in the alliance, rather than a broken plaything for Lotharingia's brother.

Then again, perhaps it wasn't entirely Gaul's fault. She couldn't help that she was one of Celt's offspring and naturally disposed to failure and weakness.

"I do believe our old friend Germania is not willing to obey Lothair's command for much longer," Lotharingia continued. It still rankled her that her nation name was so close to her brother's human name – she had every intention of changing it once she finally escaped this rat hole.

"Germania has never enjoyed doing the bidding of another," Gaul said quietly. Her voice was growing weaker all the time. Lotharingia suspected Gaul would not last much longer, especially since she had children to take her place.

"Indeed. Even under the yoke of Rome, his devotion to his people never wavered." Lotheringia's gaze darted briefly to Gaul. "Unlike some _other_ conquered nations I could mention."

Lotharingia was disappointed that Gaul did not even bristle at the implied insult. From what she understood, Gaul would once have smashed Lotharingia's face in for such a comment.

"I wonder, dear sister-in-law," said Lotharingia. "Did you never pursue Germania?" She already knew the answer. She'd heard all about Gaul's interest in a certain bushy-browed island woman.

"No," Gaul answered blankly. "And he would not have wanted me even if I had. His heart belonged to Suebi and Teuton. It likely still does."

"I remember Suebi well, but I never met Teuton."

"I am not surprised. Teuton was a more eastern-dwelling Germanic. She and her brother Cimbri died fighting Rome."

"That must have been so painful for him. Are any of Germania's sons hers? I know at least three of them are Suebi's and most of the others were born to Veleti and Chatti."

Lotharingia had a vested interest in Suebi's sons. They looked to her as a mother figure rather than their stepmother Chatti. She intended to use that to her advantage. Swabia, Thuringia, and Bavaria had come to the court so lost without their mother and with their father gone all the time; it would have been foolish of Lotharingia to overlook the potential for cultivating them as allies. If she told Swabia to put a knife into her brother's back, he would do it and not ask questions.

"Yes, Teuton gave him a son," said Gaul. "The little silver-haired boy with the red eyes."

Lotharingia nearly, _very nearly_, made a face. That particular child was a loud-mouthed thorn in her side, always running around and causing havoc. She was hoping to send the boy off to a monastic order or find him some little scrap of land to lord over just to get him out of her sight.

"I see," said Lotharingia. She then paused and looked Gaul in the eye. "My dear Gwenaëlle, you do not look so well. Let us go to the gardens for some fresh air to continue our conversation and, tonight, I will convince my brother not to come to your room…for the sake of your health, of course."

That suggestion definitely roused some life back into Gaul.

* * *

Lotharingia had made good on her promise to Gaul and so the Kingdom of the Franks was persuaded to make a surprise inspection at the garrison on the far end of the city in regards to allegations that the commander had accepted a bribe from the Umayyad Caliphate to let Muslim spies into the city. Her brother was a paranoid man who would believe even the faintest hint of treachery was present. Whether her accusation was true or not, Lotharingia knew her brother would kill the man regardless when he found out the commander had a Muslim lover in his bed…a _male_ Muslim lover, at that. The Umayyad were well-known for such proclivities, after all.

And there were no secrets kept from Lotharingia in this city.

So, after her brother stormed out of the dining hall with a squadron of his troops, she slipped into the private chamber Germania occupied when he stayed at their court and waited for him.

She did not have long to wait.

"Good evening, my lord," she said as soon as he took notice of her.

Lotharingia wished her clothes were more flattering than the heavy woolen tunic and veil she had to wear. It was difficult to entice a man when all he could see was a face and hands, but she doubted Germania would take it well if she'd been brazen enough to be lying naked on his bed when he arrived. He was strangely modest for a conquering warrior.

* * *

Germania wasn't sure what to make of the sight that greeted him upon retiring to his quarters.

He had certainly not expected the sister of his old ally – though he used the term loosely – sitting at the foot of his bed and giving him a look he was trying very hard not to interpret as an invitation. Germania was not blind to the attentions women sometimes paid him, but he was no philanderer.

He wasn't _Rome_.

Truth be told, he hadn't given Lotharingia much thought since the Fall of Rome. She'd been just a tribe, then, like her brother, though she'd since carved out a sizable territory to govern. She was the caretaker and guardian of a number of Germania's sons and had even taken Belgica and Frisia's young children as her wards.

Definitely a change from the cold warrior he'd seen that day so long ago. Clad in leather and ring mail and loose bits of gear she'd taken off the bodies of Roman soldiers, her hair shorn short at the back with a fringe in the front, she'd looked so much like her brother at the time that Germania had believed her a man.

Now, she was dressed in a long gown of rich green, embroidered with gold trim, with a gold circlet keeping a veil in place over twin braids of golden hair that reached down to her slipper-clad feet. Around her neck hung a gold cross, a symbol of her people's conversion to the Christian faith. Her face had become fuller and a little round now that she was able to eat regularly rather than subsisting off whatever she could scavenge. Her bright blue eyes appeared softer, gentler even. Everything about her seemed to say that she was a much kinder, more nurturing and elegant soul than she'd been the day she helped burn Rome to the ground.

Germania didn't buy it for one moment.

"May I help you, Lotharingia?" he said tiredly, hoping to get straight to the point.

"A word, my lord," she answered. "And, please, it would be my honor if you would call me 'Alpaida.'"

That had Germania on his guard. Nations seldom permitted their fellows to use their human names, save when those nations were close on a personal level or else when in the presence of humans not aware of what they truly were. Germania did not live as long as he had by playing the fool and he did not trust Lotharingia, if only for her overly-familiar behavior.

"I would rather you say your piece and leave," he said.

"Well, it was worth a try, at any rate," Lotharingia said with a sigh, crossing her arms and dropping the tender expression from her face. "What gave me away?"

"No one who has spilled as much blood as you or I can ever truly wash it off, no matter how finely we dress or how kindly we act."

"Would I have fooled you better if I had come to your chamber in tears, crying about how my cruel brother beats me?"

"Your brother wouldn't lay a hand on you. He will never admit it, but he knows he won't last if you were to turn on him."

"Hmm, another fair point. Lothair never does raise a hand to me."

_He saves __**that**__ dubious sign of affection for his wife_, Lotharingia left unsaid, though Germania already knew about it. He'd been there the day Gaul appeared at Rome's house, caked in dirt and blood and begging for help after her first encounter with the Frankish tribe – Germania had been surprised by how much Rome really did try to help the woman who was once his bitterest enemy, especially since he hadn't shown the same courtesy to other nations.

Germania felt his mood darken at a particular memory that surfaced in his thoughts.

"I am afraid I must ask you to get to your point," Germania insisted. "Otherwise, I will have no choice but to physically remove you from my room."

"Very well," said Lotharingia. "I wish to leave my brother and I need your help to do so."

Well, that was certainly one way of capturing Germania's attention.

"I can understand your surprise," Lotharingia continued. "But I am perfectly serious. I wish to leave my brother's little empire."

"I see," said Germania. "I will admit that you _did_ surprise me. But why do you wish to leave your brother?"

"It's a simple matter of competence. Lothair doesn't have any."

"A rather harsh sentiment towards your own flesh and blood."

"Do not act so self-righteous, Germania. I know perfectly well you despise Lothair for disrupting the German unity you envisioned when we all fought against Rome."

"Your brother broke a sacred vow to Woutan when he decided to listen more to his own greed than to the counsel of his neighbors."

"Vows to false gods do not mean much to followers of Christ. Why do you think Lothair was so eager to convert to a religion that holds itself above the beliefs of pagans? It is a useful tool for ensuring the loyalty of the humans."

"Is that why he hounds me relentlessly to be baptized?"

"He sees your pagan beliefs as an insult to him, personally."

"So he does not truly believe in the Christian faith?"

"Christianity is a religion that teaches kindness, charity, and forgiveness towards others and holds that a man should love others to the point of being willing to give his own life even for those that have wronged him. What do you _think_? But this is beside the point. I wish to leave my brother's empire and establish a new kingdom. And I am not alone in this aspiration. Many of your sons stand ready to follow me out of here, but I need you to help us secure this new kingdom."

"Why do you need _me_? You appear to have all this planned out. You even have _my sons_ at your beck and call." Germania had to fight to keep the anger out of his tone at that. He did not like the thought that this woman was using his children for her own ends.

"Lothair will never all me to leave without a fight. To him, we are all part of Francia. But my future is in the east, in Austrasia where I and my brother were born. It is my destiny to return and claim my rightful place in the Rhineland. Lothair has no concept of how to govern these lands and his kings persist in carving up new kingdoms and duchies to grant to their worthless sons, no matter how much it strains the empire and sows dissent."

"But _why me_?" Germania persisted.

"I have enough kingdoms ready to leave, but we will only do so under the banner of a unified Germanic nation. So long as Lothair sits in power, we will be a singularly Frankish kingdom. I do not wish to rule solely as a Frank, but as a true German in service to my sworn chieftain. I want to form two joint allied kingdoms to resist my brother."

"What you are suggesting…such a pact would be like a marriage bond. And I already have a wife."

"You have been married to more than one female nation before."

"That was…in a different time. And you are now a Christian nation."

"And if you proclaim yourself a Christian nation, as well, then any bond forged with your pagan wife no longer need be valid."

"You suggest that I renounce my gods and put aside Chatti for your mad ambitions?"

"I _suggest_ that you consider the best option for the German people. We may all be different tribes, but even Rome saw that we had always considered ourselves one race of Germani. Can you not see with your own eyes the discontent of your sons under the rule of the Frankish Empire? They long for their homeland and for German ways, not the strange ways of the south. These lands are too Romanized and strange for them. No, the only chance is to reclaim what is ours. Or has the _Vaterland_ forsaken us?"

"I would never-"

Lotharingia reached up and grabbed him by the front of his tunic, pulling him in close.

"Then prove it," she said with a fierceness and passion that Germania had not seen in centuries. The last German tribe to have such strength inside her was Teuton, right before she…

No, he would put that memory to rest. He would _not_ think of her again. But Lotharingia was giving him such a blazing look, filled with righteous fury, that he couldn't stop himself from seeing something in her that reminded him of his silver-haired shield-maiden. He wasn't entirely taken in, however; Lotharingia was more of a _nixe_ than Germania was comfortable with and he was certain her motives were not as altruistic as she wanted him to believe.

But this could be his only chance.

He wanted out of this damned Frankish Empire as much as anyone. He had great respect for kings like Charlemagne, but more and more the Frankish monarchs seemed determined to forge their own downfall. Germania was concerned about the potential fallout his sons would face when the empire collapsed. Perhaps the only way to protect his family was to accept Lotharingia's offer.

He wouldn't be able to get away with leaving, himself, if he did not have Lotharingia at his side. If he declared for himself and himself alone, Lotharingia was the only force standing between him and her temperamental brother – and a woman scorned is a dangerous enemy. She already had many of his sons looking first and foremost to her, so Germania doubted his secession would be smooth without her. On her side, she needed Germania to give her own secession legitimacy and to provide her with a defender to the east against savage nations like Avar and Magyar.

One could not proceed without the other.

The only question that remained was: Did Germania have it in him to be that cold, that calculating, and that ambitious?

* * *

"I baptize thee, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

Germania closed his eyes as the priest guided him to immerse his head beneath the waters of the river where the ceremony was taking place. The blessed Rhine, the sacred boundary that once delineated the border between Germania and Gaul, now gave birth to him anew as the Kingdom of Germany.

Lotharingia was now East Francia, soon to be his wife. Her brother, now referred to as "West Francia," had not taken her departure well and tried to force her to return to him, or else to forfeit the lands between them. She refused and now there was to be war. It was to be expected.

Everything was soon to change. For better or worse, Germania couldn't say. As he was raised back out of the waters, his sons cheering from the riverbank, he felt strangely light. Perhaps there was something to this 'Christian' business, after all. His sons certainly believed so. It was a difficult transition for Germania; every day prior to this, he feared the wrath of Woutan for abandoning his faith. He'd resisted Christianity for so long, it was like he was turning his back on everything he stood for.

And yet, water had never felt as purifying as it did in that instant. All his weariness and shame, all the guilt and sorrow he had felt, was simply gone. No longer did he feel the accusing eyes of Rome upon him and, for the first time in his life, he could feel the blood of those he'd slain cleansed from his hands and his soul.

* * *

East Francia had never felt as sure of her own power as she did when she sat on a throne with her young son in her lap. They were posing for a sculpture of the Madonna and Christ-Child that was to be placed in a new church, as befitting the wife and son of the Kingdom of Germany.

Chatti had been easily removed from her position as Germania's wife and soon after dissolved as a personification as her people vanished into the mix of kingdoms and duchies that flocked to swear allegiance to the new empire. Now, East Francia was by Germania's side, ruling as she had always been meant to, with a son fit to carry the legacy of their united German empire. She wished she could have named him according to what he was, but the church insisted on a name more linked to Christianity.

Her son was named the new Roman Empire, by one of Rome's own grandchildren no less.

The Holy See proclaimed this empire under the German ruler Otto the First to be the true and legitimate heir of Rome, despite having no Roman blood and, in fact, being the product of the ones responsible for Rome's downfall. East Francia would have laughed at the irony of it had she not known that the only reason the Holy See did so was because he refused to bow to the Byzantine Empire and the Eastern Orthodox faith. It was a choice between serving either a Catholic German or some Orthodox bastard from the Orient.

East Francia knew she had made the right decision convincing Germania to be baptized according to the rites of Chalcedon and not the Arian heresy that Goth, Vandal, and Lombard were so enamored of. Considering how miserably those three were faring, East Francia almost allowed herself to actually believe in God.

Far more nations had sworn their allegiance to her son than even East Francia had expected, as well. His half-brothers, of course, were ever-faithful and would stand by him; Bavaria, in particular, was a favorite source of counsel for the young empire. But then there were others, like the Kingdom of Arles – the German tribe of the Burgundians, now married to Gaul's daughter Provence and formed into an independent kingdom – joined to the empire as a sign of protest against West Francia's constant interference in the succession of their kings. After that, the Kingdom of Italy was conquered in order to stop their king from attacking the Papal States – yet another reason why the Holy See was so eager to support East Francia's son.

East Francia's son, already so strong and wise, had been extremely delighted by the acquisition of Italy. As yet, they had not captured the personification for the Kingdom of Italy, though East Francia's son said he had seen the child several times in passing, though the little foundling fled whenever he came near. He said the child was a girl, but, honestly, East Francia considered Italians so weak as a people that she couldn't tell the difference between their men and their women. Her son was convinced that Rome's grandchild was worth bringing fully into their empire, so east Francia would keep trying to find her for his sake.

Then there were the eastern nations that were falling under her son's banner.

Bohemia and Moravia were cementing a union and were petitioning East Francia's son that they be raised to the status of 'kingdom' rather than 'duchy' within the empire. East Francia knew of Moravia by the reputation of her father, Marcommani – a loyal German tribe, Suebi's brother, who beleaguered Rome's legions for centuries. Moravia's mother, on the other hand, was reportedly a Slavic tribe, which caused some raised eyebrows at court – the Slavs were a strange group, claiming to come from "Mother Slav," a nation as enigmatic and far-traveled as Celt with no real home but whose culture and language was deeply ingrained in the countries claiming descent. Bohemia, on the other hand, was a little more clear-cut. He used to be a Celtic tribe by the name of the "Boii," oddly not one of the typical failures produced from Celt's line, and Bavaria was willing to vouch for him as an old friend. Bohemia and Moravia made for an odd couple, but they brought much to the empire so East Francia welcomed them in.

Along with large, powerful nations like Bohemia and Moravia were smaller ones that East Francia felt could have some potential if utilized to the best advantage. Bavaria had come home one day with a little dark-haired boy clinging to him. He said the boy's name was "Ostarrîchi" and that he'd found the child wandering around the burnt ruins of the former Roman province of Noricum.

East Francia had heard about Noricum from Germania. A dark-haired, violet-eyed beauty of Taurisci blood who willingly accepted Rome as her master. By all reports, Noricum had died centuries ago at the hands of Goth and his sons. Swabia, then known as "Alamanni," had sent word during his campaign against Raetia and Vindelici that Noricum had been killed. If this boy was Noricum's child, he had likely fled into the Alps and hidden with the Helvetii after his mother died. Even though the land technically belonged to the Franks after the Fall of Rome and then mostly passed into East Francia's jurisdiction, no one really dared to go up there unless they had a death wish considering Helvetia's attitude towards trespassers.

The boy had also been found carrying a little baby girl when he was discovered. He said the girl's name was "Bright Stone" and that he was told to protect her. He also claimed his 'blood brother' was still up in the mountains.

East Francia persuaded her husband to take in the young waif and the baby girl. The boy was given the title of a Margraviate and placed in Bavaria's care and the girl was handed off to the nursemaids until she was old enough to participate in imperial matters.

It would seem strange how much a woman like East Francia appeared to care about all the children she took in. She had become a much-loved stepmother to Germania's sons, she was a foster mother to little Belgium, Netherlands, and Luxembourg after their parents Belgica and Frisia died, and now she had taken in two strange children found among the ashes of a dead province of Rome. But East Francia always had another motive for everything she did.

Her son, her Roman Empire of German states, had a sacred destiny to rule the world and she would provide him with every ally she could gather. West Francia was already beginning to crumble under his own idiocy and East Francia would soon take his lands for her son to rule.

Who would stand in her way? Certainly not that weakling nephew of hers. The boy's mother, Gaul, had died not long after East Francia left and the boy's sisters were only interested in saving their own skins.

As long as East Francia lived, all would bow to her son. She would secure her son's birthright in whatever way she could for as long as she drew breath. Every kingdom, tribe, and duchy would remain within her sights at all times so as to ensure their unwavering loyalty.

CRASH!

"You will all submit to the Teutonic Knights!" a high-pitched, irritating voice echoed from up the nearby hall.

Now if only she could find some way to get rid of _that one_.

* * *

**Author's Note****: Wow, Lotharingia/East Francia is the most manipulative and ruthless character I've ever written.**

**I decided to make the Kingdom of the Franks a Grade A asshole because the Franks introduced the Salic Laws to Europe, basically ingraining the idea of women being inferior to men into Western culture and stripping women of their legal rights. Also, his relationship with Gaul is based on what happened to Gaul prior to and after the Fall of Rome. Gaul had been facing increasing raids from the Frankish tribes in the north, eventually being overrun by them after Rome was sacked, and the Romanized Gauls were forced to adapt to Frankish culture. The Franks were involved in the destruction of Rome (though the Fall was mostly engineered by the Vandals and the Goths), but they turned the tide on their fellow German tribes and started conquering **_**them**_** – hence why Germania isn't so happy with him, as that's the kind of backstabbing he hated having to deal with in the Roman Empire.**

**The Frankish kings were also incredibly short-sighted as they didn't see the issue in continuously carving up their kingdoms in order to ensure that each son had land to inherit, which eventually resulted in cutthroat politics and fratricidal wars. **

**And, believe me, I'm saying all this with the utmost charity, being a descendant of Merovingian and Carolingian kings, myself (I'm related to Charlemagne, like, twenty different ways – of course, considering how many children the guy had, a lot of people are related to him).**

**Gallia Lugdunensis/Neustria – the northwestern region of France which later transformed into the Kingdom of France.**

"**Alpaida" was the name of the mother of Charles "the Hammer" Martel. Charles halted the advance of Moorish conquest in Europe and was the grandfather of Charlemagne and partly responsible for the rise of the Holy Roman Empire.**

**Woutan – the Old High German name for Odin, a principle god of the Germanic peoples.**

**Austrasia was the name for the Frankish homeland along the Rhine, is just means "eastern kingdom."**

**Nixe – a German water-sprite known for trickery, reputed to drown unwary men in the river.**

**That's right, folks! The only reason the Holy Roman Empire was called 'Roman' was because the rulers were Roman Catholic and rejected the Arian faith (a heretical branch of Christianity that rejected the Trinitarian nature of God). Arianism was very popular in Germanic kingdoms, except among the Franks and Anglo-Saxons who remained mostly pagan until they were forced to convert to Chalcedonian Christianity. **


	7. Flammeum

**I really wanted to write a piece on Roman wedding traditions, since I sort of skipped over the actual ceremony in the Rome x Sabine chapter (I just love wedding traditions, okay). Everything you see is a real part of Roman wedding traditions (with the exception of some lines of dialogue which I came up with to help illustrate what's going on; but anything in Latin is real).**

**Plus, this chapter is intended to give an explanation on why Romano and Veneziano are Rome's **_**grandchildren**_** rather than just his children.**

**Warnings: Divorce and some prejudicial views consistent with Roman culture. Some animal sacrifice is also depicted. Also, Rome is a bit of an insensitive man-whore (hey, it's canon, don't blame **_**me**_**). **

Flammeum

In all honesty, Rome never thought he'd live to see his son married. Let alone married for a second time.

Ramnes, the first tribe of Rome, now served to represent the whole western half of the Roman Empire. As such, the boy more than deserved to marry a woman he actually got along with rather than the huffy southern province he'd been stuck with for over a century. Or was it _two_ centuries? Yes, definitely no less than two and no more than three. He remembered that he'd basically given Magna Graecia over to his son as a gift following the downfall of Carthage. Magna Graecia hadn't been too pleased when Rome ransacked her city of Syracuse and killed her beloved scientist Archimedes while the old Greek man was working on a mathematical equation, but she brought it on herself by siding with Hannibal and the Carthaginians.

She hadn't been the most agreeable daughter-in-law since then and, frankly, Rome was actually quite happy his son had divorced her to marry a sweet, obedient woman like Venetia. In truth, Rome figured that the only reason Ramnes hadn't divorced Magna Graecia after her little Sicilian Revolt was because of Rome's indiscretions with Egypt causing a massive civil war – something which Sabine was _still_ angry at him about over a year later. At least Rome's family got to keep custody of the children, not that Magna Graecia would have won if the whole dispute went to the courts, all things considered.

"_Ave_, my good man," Rome called out as he approached the priest he had hired to read the morning omens for the wedding. "What do the gods say about my son's new wife?"

"The signs are very fortuitous," the priest replied, pausing to duck out of the way as some slaves passed by carrying a table. In the background, one could also hear other slaves and servants loudly continuing the preparations for the ceremony, decorating the atrium with flowers, tree boughs, garlands, banners, and tapestries. "Young Lucius should expect a very happy union."

"Romanillus," Rome corrected.

"I'm sorry?"

"My son prefers to go by his nickname of 'Romanillus.' Do make sure to address him properly when you speak to him."

"Of course," the priest replied with a bow. "And the young lady, does she have a preference for her name?"

"We call her 'Rufina,' because of her red hair, but she likely won't mind if you call her 'Adriana.' Or even 'Valeria.' She is proud of all of them."

"I see. Is not your family's own name 'Valerius'?"

"It is. Rufina is an orphan from the Veneti people. She did not have a family name of her own, so I granted her use of mine. I mean, it's not like it's a big deal. The Veneti are descendants of Troy like all the rest of us, after all."

"Indeed. And a woman of such heritage makes for a better match than some Greek."

"Oh, my previous daughter-in-law was even worse."

"How so?"

"She was a mixed Greek and Carthaginian."

The priest made a disgusted face. Even after all these years, Rome's people still cursed vile Carthage and all his family.

"A Carthaginian? And you let her marry your son? I hope you do not intend to name any children of hers as your heirs."

"They are still my grandchildren," Rome said with a shrug. "No matter who their mother is."

Rome meant what he said. He did love his grandchildren regardless of who their mother was. Sicily was such a curious and adventurous little girl. Little Sardinia was keenly intelligent and charming for so young a child. The eldest boy was very stuffy and serious, especially considering it was determined he only represented a swampy little stretch of marsh called 'Vatican Hill' – Rome doubted the child would amount to much, but he would ensure Vaticanus was well-educated and looked after, regardless of his prospects. It was the youngest child that Rome was most interested in, though – Romanus Neapolitus, given the human name of "Lavinius Valerius," who represented the powerful city of Neapolis in the south. The little boy, who looked the most like Rome out of all the grandchildren (though there were definitely traces of Sabine in him), was a fiery and hot-tempered infant who would punch and kick and scream constantly – in short, a perfect future leader among prospective Italian regions and city-states.

"So," Rome continued. "Did the gods have any further messages for me in the animal entrails?"

"They did, as it happens," the priest replied. "The state of the liver in the sheep and the amount of blood it produced on removal suggests you are to have a great deal more grandchildren in the future, and possibly some additional children of your own."

"That is good news. I do adore having little ones running around the palace. It gets so gloomy if there aren't enough people here."

As much as he loved his eldest son, Rome missed his younger children. He and Sabine had produced three tribes: Ramnes (name for Romulus), Tities (named for the Sabine king Titus Tatius), and Luceres (whose name Rome didn't really know the origin of, though he was fairly sure it was Etruscan). Ramnes might still be around, but Tities had vanished and Luceres had decided to become a Vestal Virgin so she wasn't at home all that much these days.

Then there were the other children. After Rome had conquered Greece, he took the nation, herself, as a war prize (like how he'd given Magna Graecia to his son, only without the whole marriage thing to make it more respectable). It was a very awkward situation, especially when Greece gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl, Byzantium and Ravenna. Sabine couldn't stand the sight of Greece after that (especially when Rome recognized the children as his legally), so Rome took the children into his home and set up a private residence for Greece…far, far away from Rome and his angry wife. He still tried to visit when he could so that Byzantium and Ravenna could see their mother, but Greece recently made it clear after Ramnes's divorce of Magna Graecia that Rome was not welcome there for the foreseeable future.

Honestly, women could be so tetchy, sometimes.

"Well, everything seems to be in order," Rome said.

"Would you like me to stay and oversee the ceremony?" the priest asked, hopeful for another professional opportunity and the pay that came with it.

"You may stay for the proceedings, if you desire, but the Pontifex Maximus should be arriving soon to witness the necessary elements."

"The Pontifex Maximus?" the priest stammered in incredulity. "The honorable Augustus is coming _here_?"

"Of course he is. Augustus is a friend of my son."

Rome very carefully avoided mentioning his own rather shaky relationship with the emperor. Things were still somewhat rocky between them and Rome was still forbidden from seeing Egypt for the next few decades…though the chewing out he'd gotten from Augustus wasn't half as bad as the one he got from Sabine.

* * *

"I'm so nervous," Venetia said as Noricum helped adjust the crown of flowers over her veil.

"I don't see why," Noricum said, pausing to blow a loose strand of dark hair out of her face. She was one of Rome's client kingdoms in the north and a neighbor of Venetia's. "It is only Ramnes. You two have been close for decades now."

"As friends, perhaps. And, for so long, I thought he would only look at me as if I were his father's ward and not someone worthy of his attention and affection."

"He would have to be blind and foolish, then," said Histria, Venetia's sister. She was a tall, fair-haired beauty with captivating dark brown eyes – Venetia had often envied her sister's natural graces and charming personality. "Dear little Rufina, he has obviously been in love with you for ages."

"And _I_ have been in love with _him_ since he first came to our home and told us that Greece would never hurt us again. That _no one_ would ever hurt us again."

Venetia still remembered what it had been like. She and her sister had been just a couple of wild tribes on the Adriatic Sea, abandoned by their father Liburnia when he went to war against Dalmatia. They were a strange mix of Illyrian and Celtic, raised as seafarers and horse-breeders rather than farmers, who stood out very awkwardly next to the rest of the Italian peoples and who didn't get on well with the other Celtic and Illyrian tribes. Greece thought the Veneti and Histri tribes would be easy to conquer and colonize, so she sent Sparta to try and beat them into submission – only for Venetia to kick Sparta's ass and send the jerk crawling home in disgrace because Sparta was stupid enough to try fighting Venetia in a sea battle. That was about when Rome decided to take an interest in the welfare of Venetia and Histria and sent his son to offer them additional support against their enemies.

Even back then, Ramnes was already an impressive figure. Tall and tan and handsome as his father, with windswept brown hair and gold-brown eyes and the faintest hints of stubble on his chin. His armor had glinted in the sunlight as he came to the door of their home.

"_Do not be afraid of me," he had said. "I am Romanillus, son of the great city of Rome. My father offers you his protection against those who would harm you. We have heard about your triumphs against the Spartans, the Illyrians, and the Celts, and yet we fear for your safety against Gaul. She has been marching against all of Italia, burning and looting and pillaging everywhere she goes."_

"_We have stood against Greece," Venetia had responded proudly. "Is a savage like Gaul any threat to us? Especially when we still wait for Greece to attack us once more."_

"_Greece will never come after you again. If she ever raises a hand to harm you, my father and I will pledge our swords and shields to your service. If you will swear your friendship to us and stand with us to resist all foreign invaders like Greece, Gaul, and Carthage, then we will always protect you in return."_

"_And what do you desire in exchange for this friendship?" Histria had asked cautiously. _

"_We ask only for __**amicitia**__. Perhaps, one day, we may wish to establish a trading station with you, but, for now, our sole interest is in an alliance against Gaul. I know we Romans are not admired much by our neighbors, but we only wish for us all to be united in friendship against our most hated enemy. For we are all one Italia, and we must stand together or face destruction."_

_Venetia and Histria withdrew for a few minutes to quietly discuss the arrangement before returning with their answer that, yes, they would be friends to Rome. That whatever he would ask of them that was within their power to give, they would give it._

Now, Venetia was prepared to give the ultimate gift within her possession. Herself – her body, heart, and soul – would be commended into the care of Rome's eldest and most beloved son.

He had not only protected her and her sister, but he had raised them up out of the dark shadows of the northeast. While Venetia and Histria had always been sought after as trading partners, the Sicilians had cheated them ruthlessly and tried to take control of their own ports away from them. Rome and Ramnes had removed Sicilian authority and built Aquileia as a new center of trade, establishing roads and advanced architecture and planning, bringing order and peace and the beautiful language of Latin so that Venetia and Histria were finally brought into the civilized world as part of a unified Roman Italia.

"I cannot believe how ungrateful Magna Graecia was in her marriage to Romillus," Venetia said. "She seemed only too happy to have the divorce."

"I wouldn't pretend to know how Greeks and Greek colonies think," Noricum said. "Tilt your head back, I'm going to administer some perfume."

Venetia did as she was bidden and soon caught the rich scent of _saliunca_. It was a sweet-smelling plant, very similar in nature to lavender, which Noricum prided herself on using to create highly-coveted perfumes. Carefully, she dripped little droplets of the fragrant oil onto Venetia's skin and hair.

"There, fresh as a mountain breeze," Noricum said upon finishing her application of the perfume.

"I hope it won't conflict with the scent of the flowers in my wreath," Venetia said, reaching up to lightly fidget with the flower crown.

"Don't jostle it about!" Noricum exclaimed. "I had to pin the thing in place. Do you wish to jab yourself in the head?"

Venetia looked up at her friend with a sheepish smile and a blush.

"And, to answer your question," Noricum added, much more calmly. "The flowers should be fine. They are more for color and decoration than scent, anyway. That's why I added the perfume."

"Well, don't be stingy," said Histria, reaching out a hand. "Pass some of that my way."

"Get your own," Noricum said, tone waspish. "This stuff doesn't grow on trees."

"Actually, it grows in huge fields in your little backwater of a kingdom."

"Hmph, even the tiniest drop would be wasted on _you_."

"At least I'm not the one bathing in pools of the stuff to cover up the stench I picked up from spending time with Pannonia."

"Why you little-!"

"Iulia, Floriana, please stop fighting," Venetia said, nearly crying. "Your constant arguments are ruining what's supposed to be the happiest day of my life."

"I'm sorry," Histria said contritely. "You are right, Rufina, that got out of hand."

"It was most undignified," Noricum admitted. She then shot a hard look at Histria. "But kindly keep comments about Pannonia to yourself."

"Did someone say my name?" said young woman as she poked her head in the room. She was of fairly average looks. Her light brown hair was short and curly, more like that of a young man than a lady, and her eyes, while a pretty shade of brown, were not exceedingly remarkable. She was roughly-dressed, as well, eschewing the fine dresses worn by the Romanized women in favor of more rustic attire – indeed, looking at her, one might mistake her for a man were it not for her noticeable chest. The masculine image was further compounded by a slight aroma of dog.

Pannonia was known for her love of dogs and the quality of the animals she bred, and the scent was testimony to that fact. Noricum had once smelled heavily of cow and Veneti of horse, but they'd eventually managed to get rid of it thanks to Rome introducing baths to their lands – but Pannonia did not have the same luxury, unfortunately.

"_Salve_, Pannonia," Venetia said, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the smell.

"Are you finished getting ready, yet?" Pannonia asked. "The decorations are all up and that stuffy, annoying emperor guy should be arriving any moment."

"I'd speak a little more respectfully of Emperor Augustus, if I were you," said Histria. "One day, you might just cross him and end up as nothing but a little province for Rome to demand tribute from, like Gaul and Greece."

"Hah, that'll be the day," Pannonia scoffed. "Noricum and I are of Taurisci blood, and we bow to no one. Isn't that right, Floriana?"

"Quite," said Noricum.

"If you both dislike Rome so much, why do you use the Latin names he gave you both when you became his client kingdoms?" said Histria. She smiled at Pannonia. "Well, Prisca?"

"We only use them because our real names are so _savage_ they might offend your delicate Roman ears," Pannonia said with a huff.

"I think it's our noses we're more worried about right now," Histria muttered. Pannonia heard and started to go for the dagger she kept on her belt.

"How many times do I have to ask you all to stop fighting?" Venetia sobbed.

Pannonia dropped her hand from her dagger and she and the other two hung their heads guiltily.

"There, there, Rufina," Histria said soothingly, enfolding her sister in her arms. "Don't cry. We're all…_friends_." That last word was very strained. "And we just want to make today special for you. I'm sorry that we keep getting worked up at each other, but I promise we won't let it happen again."

Histria shot a warning look at Noricum and Pannonia.

"Right, ladies?" she said, eliciting nods and forced smiles from the others.

They were interrupted by a furious pounding on the door.

"Are you girls finished?!" the impatient voice of Sabine called from outside. "Everything's ready and the emperor is here! Get out here, _now_!"

"Well…" Pannonia said, giving a now-panicking Venetia a sympathetic look. "Best of luck having _that_ as a mother-in-law."

* * *

Rome smiled as everyone was gathered together in the large atrium.

It was one of his favorite places in his palace. A wide, open-air sunken courtyard with a large _impluvium_ pool in the center. It was practically a park with the fountains, flowering shrubs, and luscious fruit trees he had decorating it. Most homes just had a room with a little opening in the top to let rainwater into the _impluvium_, but Rome was never one to settle for what the common folk had and he needed to ensure his atrium was the height of luxury. It was an excellent place to sit and contemplate the world, and then get drunk with his friends.

Considering how hot the late June weather was, Rome was incredibly thankful that weddings always take place in the nice, breezy atrium with its cool, marble tiles and not in some stuffy private room or the smoky interior of a temple.

It also made listening to Augustus drone on and on about moral fortitude a little more bearable.

"…and the reason why everything started to decline in the Republic was because men and women were only considering their own personal pleasure, rather than the posterity and security of the family and the empire," Augustus said in his normal, pompous tone. "That is why we need structure, order, and efficiency in both the state as a whole and within the family unit as an individual component of the state."

Rome was half asleep by that point. As much as he admired his emperor in certain ways, the man was no great orator. Several times, Rome felt Ramnes elbow him slightly to wake him up.

At least Ramnes seemed to be in a good mood. He was wearing a new toga and new sandals and had a flower crown on his head. He was smiling pleasantly at everyone and nodding along as Augustus continued his lecture on moral obligations. Ramnes was definitely more eager for this marriage than the last, especially considering he'd been so drunk on the day he'd married Magna Graecia that he hadn't even bothered to turn up for the ceremony – he'd sent a slave with his letter of consent, which was all that the law required. Magna Graecia had griped at Ramnes for decades about it.

While Augustus droned on, Rome went through a mental checklist of all the necessary details for the wedding.

A pig for the final ritual sacrifice to give one more confirmation of the gods' approval of the marriage – check. He'd even ordered in a few extra pigs for the reception feast tomorrow.

Appropriate wedding clothes for the bride – check. He'd specially commissioned Crete for her famous saffron yellow fabric to make Venetia's veil, cloak, and new shoes.

Marriage contract – check. It wasn't really a requirement, exactly, but Rome felt it would make things a little more official as it would verify Venetia's status as a Roman woman entitled to all the rights and privileges of her rank.

At least ten witnesses – check. Besides Rome, Augustus, and the priest who had done the morning sacrifice and entrails-reading, there were several client kingdoms and Roman provinces in attendance. Macedonia, Syria, Judea, Galatia, Armenia, Crete and Cyrenae, Pergamon (now going by the name of "Asia," though it felt weird calling him that), Pontus and Bithynia (the former of whom kept glaring at Rome), Africa Nova, Africa Proconsularis, Noricum, Pannonia, Cilicia and Cyprus, and Rome's Vestal daughter Luceres. Everyone was perfectly happy to attend as auspicious an occasion as this, as wedding invitations are the one social engagement no one in the Roman Empire could ever refuse. All right, so Rome had to threaten one or two of his guests to come, but they still counted and Rome was sure they would have a good time.

Rome had a few other minor additions to his checklist, like the wedding reception. After all, a reception was purely optional, but Rome liked a good party so he spared no expense to show off for his guests.

Rome was shaken from his musings as the wedding guests began to hush each other. Next to him, Rome sensed Ramnes stiffen in nervousness. The proud _pater familias_ smiled reassuringly at his son who could do little more than stare as Venetia was led into the room.

In a white, hemless _tunica recta_, wrapped up in her saffron _palla_ cloak, a woolen band tied around her waist in the sacred Knot of Hercules, and her face covered by a _flammeum_ veil that was topped with an elaborate wreath of narcissus, oleander, roses, poppies, and violets, Venetia was guided into the atrium on either side by Sabine, who was serving as _pronuba_, and Venetia's sister Histria. As always, Sabine looked formidable, especially beside as innocent and delicate a maiden as Venetia – where Venetia was flowers and soft words, Sabine was golden crowns and harsh looks.

When they reached where Rome and Ramnes stood waiting, Histria took Venetia's hands and placed them in the hands of Ramnes.

"On behalf of my sister, as we have no living father to give her away," said Histria. "I, Adriana Iulia, say that Adriana Valeria Rufina consents to be married to Lucius Valerius Romanillus. And I charge you to care for and protect my sister for as long as you call her your wife."

Ramnes and Venetia, hand-in-hand, approached the family altar. A set of tables had been set up – one with the marriage contract and one with the pig that was to be sacrificed. Augustus, in his role as Pontifex Maximus (the supreme high priest of the College of Pontiffs), approached the bound pig and cleanly slit its throat as the animal squealed and thrashed on the table. The priest from earlier, eager to assist the emperor, offered his aid in slicing the animal open for another reading of the entrails – Augustus accepted and allowed the man to help him as they cut open pig's belly, drawing forth a rich, red gush of blood. The blood from the animal was drained off into separate bowls and Augustus reached inside the pig's belly to drag out the creature's moist organs, which he laid out on the table for inspection.

"The gods have granted their approval for the marriage!" was the pronouncement, which elicited enthusiastic cheers from the crowd.

With that, Ramnes and Venetia signed their names to the marriage contract and were ushered to sit on a pair of stools that had been covered in the skin of the sheep that was sacrificed earlier that morning. Venetia was then bidden to give the sacred words.

"_Ubi tu Gaius, ibi ego Gaia_," she said. For those uneducated in Latin, this sacred oath could be roughly translated as "Wherever you are Gaius, there am I Gaia."

And, upon the utterance of those words, Ramnes lifted her veil. She was a pretty young thing. A pale, round face and honey-brown eyes, with long curls of auburn hair tied back in six coiled locks (which had carefully been parted with a spear tip and fastened in place with ribbons, as per tradition). Around her neck was a plain necklace of amber beads which Ramnes had given her as an engagement gift. Not for the first time did Rome feel his son had made a good choice, especially seeing how happy the boy was as he leaned in to kiss his new bride while the onlookers continued in roaring with enthusiastic joy around them. Even stern and humorless Augustus couldn't help but smile for the couple.

The couple was then handed a small cake made from spelt grain. They each took a small piece, which they fed to each other, and then set the rest of the cake within the family shrine to the Lares.

"_Feliciter_!" the wedding party chanted.

* * *

Once they had all celebrated with the extravagant wedding dinner, the procession was formed.

Normally in a wedding the bride was brought from her father's house to her husband's house, but as Rome was her guardian and she would continue to live in the same household, Rome had arranged something a little different.

There would be a large procession out of the palace and into the city and then back up to the palace where Rome intended to see the young couple to their new, private residence on the estate.

Rome had spent the better part of a year organizing it when his son had expressed a wish to have his own _domus_ to raise his family, especially considering he was to have a new wife. The palace was already a massive estate with a huge stretch of private gardens in the back that were enclosed by wall and backed by a large building that had been left unused. Rome had renovated the empty building into a beautiful _domus_ (smaller than the main house of the estate but much grander than what most Roman nobles had) with plenty of workspace, living areas, and private rooms, and even a private bath like the one in the main house. Ramnes could move in there with his new wife and the children from his first marriage; they would have their own space and Rome could keep his family close.

The crowd was still cheering as Ramnes led the rowdy group with Venetia trailing demurely behind him. Venetia was escorted by three little boys (her stepson Vaticanus, Rome's son Byzantium, and Emperor Augustus's stepson Tiberius); Byzantium and young Tiberius stood to either side of her, each holding her hand as they walked with her, while Vaticanus carried the hawthorn wedding torch (the flame for the torch had been carried to the house from the Sacred Fire at the Temple of Vesta by Luceres as a special honor). Behind Venetia, the ladies in her entourage carried domestic objects, such as the distaff, spindle, a bundle of wool, and a jar of oil.

The party made their way loudly through the streets, shouting and singing and inviting strangers to join the procession. Ramnes tossed coins, nuts, and little sesame cakes to the crowds of well-wishers that came up to him. Along the way, Venetia dropped a coin for the gods of the crossroads. Some of the guests began singing the _versus Fescennini_, as series of dirty songs that were frequently used for such occasions, or else they chanted the _Talassius_ wedding cry.

When the boisterous group finally made their way back towards the palace, Ramnes and Venetia were startled when Rome steered them away from the front entrance and around the building to the entrance of their new _domus_.

"_Pater_, is this really for us?" Ramnes asked as the procession came to a stop.

"Of course it is, my son," said Rome with a fond smile. "For you, and for your wife, and for your children, so you may have a place of your own but never need be strangers to your father and mother."

Ramnes gave his father a watery smile and, after sharing a look with Venetia, the couple embraced Rome together in a thankful hug. Rome hugged the two of them back, feeling tears in his own eyes.

It was silly, Rome thought to himself. After all, Ramnes had already been married once before and it wasn't as if either he or Venetia was really going anywhere. And, yet, this wedding was so different from the one between Ramnes and Magna Graecia. There was genuine affection and happiness. And, perhaps for the first time, Rome realized how grown up his son truly was. His beloved firstborn son, his heir, the young man who looked so much like him, really was no longer a child.

Finally, the young couple withdrew from the embrace and the last details of the ceremony could take place.

Venetia was drawn in her sister Histria's arms in a similar embrace, only to be pulled away from her by Ramnes in a reenactment of the Sabine daughters being taken by force from their mothers' arms by the Roman men (Rome tried to ignore the piercing look he was getting from his wife). Ramnes led Venetia to the door of their new home where she wound bands of wool around the doorposts and then took up the jar of oil which she used to anoint the door.

Upon completing this task, Ramnes hoisted Venetia into his arms and carried her over the threshold and into the atrium of the new house so that she wouldn't risk tripping as she entered their home for the first time. Once they were inside, Ramnes set Venetia back on her feet and held a small platter with a lit oil lamp and a small jug of water.

"To you, I give fire and water," he said. "With these symbols of life, I invite you into my home to be its matron and keeper."

Venetia bowed her head and placed a coin in Ramnes's hand and then took another coin, which she set within their new lararium shrine. She then accepted the hawthorn torch from Vaticanus and made her way to the hearth where she ignited a fire and extinguished the torch. She then returned to the front door, out of which she tossed the torch which was immediately scrambled for by the wedding guests in order to receive the good luck it would give.

Lastly, Sabine strode proudly into the house and guided her new daughter-in-law to the large, gilded couch that had been set up in the atrium while the guests were ushered away. Sabine removed the _flammeum_ and _palla_ from Venetia, taking care when lifting the flower crown as the pins came loose, and motioned the younger woman to sit. Rome watched from the doorway as Sabine withdrew, stopping only to give her son an unusually tender look (it wasn't quite a smile, but it wasn't her normal frown). All other things being concluded, the only remaining custom was the untying of the Knot of Hercules from the bride, something only her husband was permitted to do.

And, with that, Rome shut the door to the house, leaving the young couple all by themselves as he and Sabine led the party back to the palace to await the wedding reception that would take place the next day.

* * *

**Author's Note****: And there we have the parents of our dear Italy Veneziano.**

**I'd say this is set about 31 B.C. as it is not too long after Cleopatra was defeated (30 B.C.) but prior to when Pannonia and Noricum tried – and failed – to invade Histria (16 B.C.) and ended up losing their client kingdom statuses to become provinces, and also prior to when Tiberius's biological father died (32 B.C.) as the boys who escorted the bride in the wedding procession had to have both their parents still be living.**

**Not everything shown in this wedding would have always taken place. This is a **_**confarreatio**_** (a Patrician wedding) employing all known Roman traditions, but different families would sometimes not have certain elements of what I showed (only consent of the families and the couple and the presence of witnesses were really needed for a marriage to be valid).**

**After the Rape of the Sabines, Romulus established three tribes of Romans. The Ramnes (Latins), Tities (Sabines), and Luceres (Etruscans, probably). These were largely created as a way of organizing who got to vote, and additional tribes were later organized to replace these three and became connected more with family names or locations in Rome. So, since I couldn't find out what happened to the original three groups, my theory is that Ramnes became the Western Roman Empire, Tities just sort of faded away, and Luceres became a Vestal Virgin until she also vanished (this is a reference to the Luceres not initially having equal rights with the other two tribes and, therefore, not having their own two Vestal Virgins until much later in pre-Republic Rome).**

**There were technically three different Veneti tribes, but the Adriatic Veneti were an Italic people who formed a close bond with the Romans and, for their loyalty, were eventually granted Latin Rights (the right to marry with Romans) and citizenship. Despite initially being considered a weak tribe, the Veneti managed to resist Greek conquest and actually defeated the famous Spartan warriors in battle. The Romans considered the Veneti (and their kindred the Histri) to be lost descendants of the Trojans, like the Romans, themselves, and wrote whole mythic histories for the Veneti to validate this claim (even though the Veneti were actually a mix of Illyrian and Celtic tribes). They are considered the ancestors of modern Venetians. **

'**Lovino' is not a real Italian name, but it could be either a variant on the name 'Luigi' or a reinterpretation of the Latin name 'Lavinius' (a male version of 'Lavinia,' a minor Roman family named after the wife of Aeneas, the mythic ancestor of the Romans).**

**Also, technically-speaking, neither of the Italy brothers should have the surname of 'Vargas,' as that is very specifically a Castilian Spanish surname that is also very popular in Latin American countries (it might make some sense for Romano, considering his Spanish upbringing, but it really doesn't for Veneziano). I think Himaruya cut a few corners when he picked human names for characters.**

**Romano should also probably be 'Italia Napoli' as he seems to represent the Kingdom of Naples more than anything (believe me, I've been to Naples and his attitude fits that place perfectly).**

**Pergamon is not the continent of Asia. It is a region in what is now Turkey, but the Romans referred to it as "Asia" after the kingdom was willed to Rome by the last king of Pergamon.**

**Noricum was a large part of what is now Austria and Pannonia was mostly what is now western Hungary (as well as parts of Slovenia, Croatia, and Serbia).**


	8. The Golden Man

**To quote Red from Overly Sarcastic Productions, "Nothing owns colonial Spain harder than it owned itself." Seriously, check out her video on El Dorado, it's hysterical. **

**This is dedicated to every country that ever experienced Spanish colonization (and with a special dedication to Colombia – no matter what our president says, we do love you, Colombia, and you deserve so much better).**

**Warning: Colonialism (and Spain kind of being a dick), but the colonies do get some small bit of vengeance. Let's just say that it's tragic, but in a funny kind of way. Or funny in a tragic kind of way.**

The Golden Man

It was an ordinary day when Muisca and his little sister made their way to the lake.

Admittedly, it was the day they were initiating a new _zipa_ to rule them, but it still felt like a regular day to the two immortal beings. Muisca had been around for some time and was the main nation in charge of caring for his little sister – mostly because he was the strongest, most advanced tribe in the entire region. None of the tribes knew who the little girl would represent, though they did recognize her as a personification of their lands, so Muisca named the child "Chía" after the powerful moon goddess of his people.

"You did make enough _chicha_, right?" Muicha said to the child as the two of them carried armfuls of pots.

"Of course, Big Brother," Chía replied. She was a sweet-faced little girl with long locks of wavy, dark brown hair and large, bright eyes. "I always make enough."

"Just making sure. The last thing we would ever want is to not have enough _chicha_ for a festival."

"Yeah, but when are you going to let _me_ have some?"

"When you're old enough to appreciate it." _And the same goes for boyfriends_, Muisca mentally added. He had no problem with his baby sister enjoying booze and boys, but only when she looked physically old enough to be considered a woman. Like, twelve? Twelve was the normal age for human women to start experimenting with their bodies, right? He couldn't be entirely sure as his women tended to lose their virginity as soon as possible so people wouldn't call them 'ugly virgins.'

"Fine," said Chía. "But you had better buy me some lulo juice for our picnic."

The two siblings continued on their way, passing familiar smiling faces, watching as Muisca's people shared and traded goods amongst themselves. The two of them finally found a nice spot close to the lake where they swapped a few pots of _chicha_ for some food and a couple of gold trinkets to contribute to the ceremony.

"I still think we got a raw deal," Muisca said as he looked over a gold statute he'd gotten that was roughly the same height as his little sister. "I mean, does this really look pretty enough?"

"I think it's nice," said Chía.

"'Nice' is all well and good, but is it good enough for the goddess of the lake? I'll admit that the bracelets and necklace we got are really good craftsmanship, though not a patch on your metalwork."

"Aw, thank you, Big Brother!"

He meant it, too. His little sister had been spending a lot of time training with the other apprentice girls and boys in the goldsmith workshop. Her work with platinum was even better than her work with gold and Muisca just wished that they'd had enough time for his sister to finish something really beautiful for them to throw in Lake Guatavita.

"Hey, Big Brother, who are those strange men over there?" Chía asked, pointing.

Muisca looked in the direction she'd indicated and saw a group of rough-looking men in metal clothes and hats. Most of the men were older, with thick hair on their faces, but there was one young man with curly, dark hair and bright green eyes who smiled in their direction when he noticed them. Muisca had a very uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. Thankfully, it didn't look like the group of men was large enough to be a threat – even though Muisca largely avoided armed conflict, there were warriors on standby in case anyone started to cause trouble due to the recent problems with Muisca's brother Panche in the west. It reassured Muisca a little, but he still wanted to know what these strange men wanted.

"Those are the foreigners from over the sea," he explained to Chía. "The 'conquistadors.' They've been causing a lot of trouble for our northern neighbors, from what I hear. Don't look at them, just try to pretend they're not there and maybe they'll leave."

"_Hola_," a voice said right behind him, nearly causing Muisca to jump out of his skin he was so startled.

"Do not do that!" Muisca said pleadingly. "What in the name of the great sun god Sué is wrong with you?"

"Ah, my apologies, _mi amigo_," the stranger said. He was the young, green-eyed foreigner. The older, meaner-looking men were standing a short ways behind him. "I was told that the two of you were like me and that you would be the best ones to serve as my guides for this…what is it, anyway? Some kind of holiday?"

"It is the sacred initiation of our new ruler," Muisca explained impatiently. "Or, rather, the ruler of the southern half of my land. The _zipa_. The _zaque_ rules in the north."

"And they both hate each other," Chía added helpfully.

"Shh, shh," Muisca hissed at his little sister, before whispering quickly in their shared language so the foreigner wouldn't understand, "_Don't tell them such things. You never tell strangers about internal conflicts_."

"Excuse me," said the foreigner. "Tell me what is happening, please."

"Yes, my apologies," Muisca mumbled. "I suppose introductions are in order. I am Muisca. This is my little sister."

"I am the Kingdom of Spain," the foreigner said with a flourish of the red cloak he was wearing as he gave a courteous bow.

Muisca exchanged a look with Chía.

"Right," Muisca said slowly. "Good for you. Uh, do you mind just standing there and not, you know, causing any disruptions. This ceremony is kind of important to us."

"Of course, of course," Spain said, waving a hand dismissively. "Just carry on as normal. I am not even here."

Muisca and his sister shared another uncertain glance, but turned their attention to where the young _zipa_ was being led onto a dais for the priests to perform the sacred rites.

"So, who is _he_?" Spain asked, pointing at the _zipa_.

"He is Tisquesusa," Muisca explained patiently. "And don't point at him. He's sacred."

"Ah, so, it's _his_ coronation, then." Spain watched, eyes widening, as the priests began to anoint the new _zipa_ with gold dust. "That is certainly a _lot_ of gold."

"If you say so." Personally, Muisca didn't see what the big deal of a little gold dust was. He, himself, was wearing a gold nose ring with a large emerald set in it (he'd gotten a good price on emeralds from his brother Muzo, who couldn't seem to get rid of the stones fast enough). It wasn't even the nicest piece of jewelry he had, so why was this Spain so interested in gold _dust_?

"Was the coronation so lavish for his father?" Spain continued.

"What do you mean? Tisquesusa's father was never _zipa_." Muisca narrowed his eyes at Spain in suspicion. "I hope you are not implying something about our leader's parentage, because the only time we had a case of incest among our leaders was with a _zaque_ up north and he was soundly punished for bedding his sister."

"_Lo siento_," Spain said holding up his hands defensively. "What are you talking about? Incest? Why would you assume I was implying _that_?"

"Because the _zipa_ is always the son of the last _zipa_'s eldest sister, obviously." Muisca was now looking at Spain as if he was an idiot. "How _else_ would you know you have a legitimate ruler if he is not born from a daughter of the royal lineage?"

"It would seem pretty crazy to have any other kind of system," Chía added.

The two locals ignored the disturbed look they were getting from Spain and returned to watch as the _zipa_ was led onto a reed raft with a few attendants and some gold offerings. Once the raft had gone out a good distance, the zipa leapt into the frigid waters and began washing the gold dust off while his attendants threw the offerings into the water. On shore, the crowds were cheering, singing, and dancing.

Muisca, not wanting to seem like a bad host, offered Spain a jar of _chicha_.

"Here, have a drink," he said.

"Ah, _gracias_," Spain said uncertainly as he accepted the drink. He choked a bit on his first sip.

"Excuse me for a moment." Muisca picked up the gold statue he had purchased and walked to the water's edge to join a large group of people.

As the _zipa_ was returned to shore, Muisca and the rest of the people began to hurl their gold offerings into the water as far as they would go. Muisca smiled at the distance he was able to get on his statue and it made such a nice splash when it hit the water. He then returned to his little sister's side and was surprised by the slack-jawed expressions of Spain and his men – they seemed almost horrified by what they had just witnessed.

"You just…you just threw God knows how much gold into that lake," Spain stammered in disbelief.

"…And your point is?" said Muisca. Honestly, he had no idea what the foreigner's problem was.

Spain just continued to stare at him and Muisca decided to try ignoring him again. Muisca opened a jar of _chicha_ for himself and sat down next to his little sister as they tucked into the food they had bought. Some nice roasted guinea pig with a side of quinoa and beans – one of his favorite dishes. He reluctantly tried to offer some to Spain, but he and his men were still staring at the lake.

_Oh, well_, thought Muisca. _His loss_.

* * *

Muisca honestly didn't think much about Spain since that day. He had his own problems when a war finally broke out between him and Panche.

Really, Muisca had better things to do with his time than deal with his brother's violent antics. He could be out negotiating business or writing some important manuscripts for the archives. He was a busy nation, after all. So, after a long period of upset, with his main boss Tisquesusa finally putting an end to the needless bloodshed, the last thing Muisca was ever expecting to see when he came back to his little home in Bacatá was that Spain guy ransacking his house while Chía was in a corner crying.

"What do you think you are doing?!" Muisca demanded.

"_Hola, mi amigo_," Spain said in a low, eerily calm voice. As he turned around, Muisca saw the man's eyes were wide and somewhat manic. "It is good to see you again. I was just in the area and thought I would drop by, because, ah, I was just wondering…" Spain then darted forward, grabbed Muisca by the front of his clothes, and began to shake him. "Where is the gold?!" Spain demanded. "I know you have a secret stockpile of gold somewhere! Tell me where it's hidden!"

Muisca opened his mouth and then closed it. He turned to look at his little sister, who shrugged and shook her head. He turned back to Spain.

"…Have you been eating coca leaves or something?" said Muisca.

Spain did not take kindly to that response and pointed some strange object under Muisca's chin that he made click with a flick of his finger. Muisca had no idea what it was, but he was reasonably sure it was a weapon.

"I will ask you again, _amigo_," said Spain, smiling in a vicious way. "Where is _the gold_?"

"Well, I have a few gold nose rings and bracelets I wear on special occasions," said Muisca. "I was going to get rid of them this year, anyway. You can have them if you want."

"No! I mean the source of all your wealth!"

Muisca stared blankly at him again.

"The salt mines are a little ways north of this village," he said. "I can show you, if you're really that interested."

"I don't care about salt mines. Just tell me where you mine all your gold."

"But what does gold have to do with wealth?"

"It just _does_! Now answer the question!"

"May I ask _you_ a question? Were you ever dropped on your head as a baby?"

* * *

In retrospect, maybe Muisca shouldn't have tried to get smart with Spain considering how crazy the foreigner was acting.

But, in Muisca's defense, he wasn't really in the mood to be polite to someone who barged into his home like he owned the place and started demanding to know the location of some 'secret stash' of gold. Honestly, why would anyone hide caches of gold? It's not like it was actually useful for anything. Not like salt or maize or most other non-gold things.

In any case, Muisca had gotten dragged away and bound with iron manacles to await "further interrogations." Something he _really_ did not like the sound of. Little Chía had protested on his behalf, screaming and crying and calling Spain and his men "ugly virgins." Oddly, though, none of the men found such an insult offensive and a couple of them actually started snickering.

"Aren't you cute?" Spain said, hoisting tiny Chía up by the back of her dress. "I think you will get on well with the rest of my new little brothers and sisters."

"I am not _your_ little sister," Chía yelled, flailing about in fury. "Put me down!"

"You can be part of my colony of New Grenada. And you'll need a new Christian name, of course. I think 'Cándida' sounds good."

"But my name is-"

"Do not worry about anything. I will make sure you learn how to read and write like a civilized person."

"But I already do-"

"And you won't ever have to practice any of those barbaric customs you have, like human sacrifice and cannibalism."

Chía's mouth hung open as she tried to grasp the sheer amount of idiocy and delusion this foreigner must be suffering from. She and Muisca had never practiced anything as disgusting as cannibalism. And human sacrifice? Muisca convinced his people to stop doing that decades before they had ever even met Spain.

"Men," Spain said to his soldiers. "Take the prisoner away."

Chía watched, eyes streaming with tears, as her big brother was roughly shoved by one of the conquistadors and made to start walking. Muisca gave her a sad smile before he was forced to turn away. The little girl did the only thing she could sensibly do in that situation. She started screaming, kicking, and scratching at Spain as relentlessly as she could.

* * *

Spain had a few light bruises and scratches on his face when he entered the stuffy little room to drop off his newest colony.

Chía scowled at the fact that she hadn't been able to do more damage to him. No matter how hard she tried, Spain remained unfazed by her attacks. She soon found herself unceremoniously dumped onto a small chair. Spain smiled down at her as if he hadn't just disrupted her very way of life, kidnapped her, and imprisoned her family, all for the sake of getting his hands on some worthless scraps of yellow metal.

"You be good, now, Cándida," he said.

"My name is-" she tried to shout.

"You listen to your teacher. She's going to teach you how to read and to be a proper Spanish lady. Okay, you have fun."

With that, he turned and left with the slam of the door behind him. Never, in her entire existence, had Chía met anyone so infuriating.

"You'll get used to it," said a voice beside her.

Chía jumped a bit as she was startled by the other little girl seated in the chair next to her. She was a pretty girl, maybe a little older than Chía (though not by much), with long, thick curls of rich, black hair and intelligent, warm, brown eyes. She was wearing a frilly dress of dark red fabric and a small necklace with a cross-shaped pendant.

"Who are you?" said Chía.

"_Mēxihca_," said the girl. "But the idiot calls me '_New_ Spain.' You can call me 'Rosa,' if you want."

"I think I have heard of you. My big brother said there were great empires in the north that were destroyed by Spain."

"Ah, that would be my family. I suppose, like me, you represent the whole of the land your family lived on."

"Y-yes, but, how did you end up here?"

"Spain likes to keep his colonies close. Look around you."

Chía finally took note of the rest of the room. She and Rosa were not the only colonies there. She even recognized a couple of her former neighbors who had disappeared some time ago under mysterious circumstances.

"Oh, I am sorry, I forgot to ask for _your_ name," said Rosa.

"I am Chía."

"Nice to meet you. What colony are you now?"

"I am _no one's_ colony!"

"You are now. I suggest you accept your new station in life and respond to the names Spain has given you."

"But-but _why_? Why should I have to change who I am because some stranger took me away from my family?"

"Because he's the one with all the power right now." Rosa's face became solemn. "Long before I met Spain, I had to learn the importance of respecting the most powerful force in my life. My sister taught me through a mixture of admiration and _fear_. As much as I hate Spain for what he has done and will continue to do, I cannot dare to challenge him."

As much as she didn't want to admit it, Chía knew Rosa had a point. Not even Muisca's people were free of power-plays and bids for control. She loved her brother, but she knew she was also valuable to him. She was his land, so he loved and cherished her, but he did not want the rest of their brothers and sisters to have the same influence over her that he did. It didn't mean they weren't family, but there was still that little hint of selfishness in their relationship.

"So," said Rosa. "_Who_ are you?"

"I…" Chía choked a bit. "I am Cándida. And I am part of New Grenada."

Rosa nodded and turned to face the front of the room as an irritated young woman entered the room. She appeared to be a teenager in physical terms, though Chía could sense the lady had far more years to her. Her hair was long, held back by a jeweled headband, and of a dark blonde shade which Chía had never seen before. Her eyes were green like Spain's and she had a soft, tan complexion. She wore a heavy dress of red and gold, which looked decidedly uncomfortable for such a hot and humid climate.

"_Hola_, children," the girl said. "For anyone new, today, I am Catalonia. Or 'Catalina Oriol' to use my human name. Now, I am not any happier about being here than you are, so let us please get through this with as little difficulty as possible."

"She's one of Spain's underlings from his homeland," Rosa whispered to Chía. "She hates him almost as much as the rest of us."

"We're going to be working on learning how to read and write," Catalonia continued.

"But I already know how to read and write," Chía insisted loudly. "My big brother taught me the moment I was old enough to hold a writing stick."

"Great for you." Catalonia had a very sarcastic way of speaking. "But, unfortunately, it's not Spanish. And, _apparently_, nothing but Spanish is good enough for Spain. Well, Spanish and Latin, but we won't get to Latin for a while. No other languages are permitted because Spanish is the only _civilized_ language left in the world." She sounded very bitter as she said that last part.

It was the worst day of Chía's life. Yet, she got a strange satisfaction out of knowing that everyone else, even her teacher, was as miserable about being under Spain's control as she was. After the lesson, Rosa introduced her to the other colonies and helped clarify a few more things about how her new situation. A few of the older colonies, a set of islands from the Caribbean, shared their own advice. It all really boiled down to 'keep your head down, don't make him angry, just go along with it for now, hope for the best.'

But, the thing of it was, she didn't want to just sit back and watch her family and human friends get slaughtered or enslaved. Sure, none of the other colonies did, either, but they had no idea what to do about it. That's when her thoughts began to churn with what she had learned recently about her new 'boss.'

He wanted gold. He didn't care how he got it, he just wanted it. He was basically deaf to anything that did not fit neatly into his view of how things should be. And, on top of it all, he was borderline insane – or maybe not even borderline; he had seemed extremely out of it when he started demanding to know where the 'secret stash' of gold was being kept and…

A small, devious smile spread across the little girl's face.

* * *

Spain dragged himself into his room and face-planted directly onto his bed.

He was badly bruised, bleeding, soaked in mud, covered in bites from various insects and animals, and had arrows and poison-tipped darts sticking out of his butt. He had finally made it back to his home country after over a year of fruitless searching. He didn't know what he had done wrong. He had gotten a tip-off from an anonymous source about a hidden place where the locals had stashed the motherlode of golden hoards and had, understandably, dashed off in search. Before that, one of his colonies had said she'd heard a rumor about a golden cache hidden far, far away in the jungle.

As he and his men made their way along the winding river, his thoughts had swirled with images of a majestic city with streets paved in gold tucked away within the dense jungles.

He had not found it, yet. He did find a tribe of warrior women, like the Amazons of Greek myth, who had proceeded to cause him grievous bodily harm. As a result, he named the river the 'Amazon.' The only thing Spain had brought back for his troubles was piles of platinum, which he promptly dumped because, really, who needed worthless unripe silver?

Maybe he just hadn't been looking in the right place. Perhaps the locals had misremembered where the city was? It's not like they were civilized enough to keep accurate records and maps of things. The only documents Spain had ever uncovered during his battles with the native peoples of the Americas were gory depictions of Devil-worship which Spain had ordered burned so that no one would ever be corrupted by such vile texts again. In future years, Spain would no doubt be celebrated for such foresight in halting the spread of idolatry and Satanic rites. Really, was it too much to ask for his due reward of a golden city?

Well, he would just have to wait and be patient. For the time being, he would focus on enforcing Spanish law among some of the more rebellious areas.

"Mr. Spain! Mr. Spain!" a bedraggled little boy shouted as he burst into the room.

_Now, which one is he, again?_ Spain thought to himself. _Peru! That's it._

"What is the matter, Luis?" he said.

"Mr. Spain," the child repeated frantically. "I know where _El Dorado_ is!"

Spain's eyes widened manically and he picked up the colony and leaned in really close to him.

"Tell me!" he demanded. "Where is it?!"

"It's in the completely opposite direction that you last traveled. All you have to do is…"

* * *

"Seriously, why do you keep doing this to the tomato-bastard?" Romano said as he sat with Chía.

They were watching Spain hastily loading supplies onto a ship to head back to the New World for another misadventure. Mexico, Peru, and a few others were with them – while they hadn't gotten on too well with Romano, at first, they had all gradually reached a friendly understanding with him. A short way off, their tutor Catalonia was making bets with Belgium and Sicily about how long it would take Spain to realize that he'd gone on a wild goose chase _this_ time.

"You mean to say that he _doesn't_ deserve this?" said Chía with a frown.

"No, no," Romano insisted, his face turning red as it often did when he was around pretty girls. "He's basically just doing this to himself because he's an _idiota_. But why are you getting so many of the other colonies in on this?"

"Because many of them have family back home they want to protect. If Spain goes haring off on another stupid quest for _El Dorado_, he's too distracted to hunt down our loved ones and lock them up like he did to my brother Muisca. I just felt that it was only fair to lend a hand to my friends."

"Plus," Mexico added. "You have to admit it's hilarious watching him spend precious time scrambling after something that doesn't even exist and getting his ass handed to him for good measure. It's like a living parable about the dangers of greed."

"You know what would be even funnier?" said Peru. "If he actually found something valuable on one of his quests and just threw it away because it wasn't gold."

"Come now, Luis," said Mexico. "Not even Spain is _that_ stupid."

* * *

"Ay, _dios mio_!" Spain yelled in frustration. "More of these damned counterfeit coins?!"

"I am sorry, sir," said Spain's second-in-command. "We had to seize a whole shipment of coins because someone had fused platinum copies with a small amount of gold to pass them off as real. What should we do with them, sir?"

"Throw them in the sea. It is the king's orders. Every scrap of platinum counterfeit gold needs to be disposed of as quickly as possible. We can't have something so worthless devaluing our currency."

"Of course, sir. We do have some good news, though. We managed to fill several galleons with real gold we acquired from the natives and they are all set to be sent back to the homeland to make millions of _real_ gold coins."

"Excellent news! One cannot have too much money in circulation, after all."

For some reason, miles upon miles away, thousands of bankers, accountants, and merchants felt chills go down their spines.

"Now that that is taken care of, we can begin preparations for our next expedition to find _El Dorado_. I know the last couple dozen or so searches did not turn out so well, but I have a really good feeling about this one."

* * *

_Several years and several more failed expeditions later…_

Spain was looking over a map of the New World, crossing out all the places he had looked so far.

All right, so there had been a few…_setbacks_ over the years. And, sure, maybe Spain was facing some issues at home and abroad, not to mention that jackass Portugal kept stepping on his toes and that bastard England had destroyed Spain's precious Armada.

Oh, God, just thinking about it still made Spain feel physically ill.

At least he was far, far away from the bushy-browed pirate and could focus on finding his golden city to maybe recoup some of the financial losses he'd incurred from the whole debacle – to say nothing of his need to finance his current war with Portugal. He could take some small measure of comfort in knowing that England was back on his pitiful slip of an island and not in any position to ruin Spain's day—

SLAM! The door to Spain's office was flung open.

"All right, Spain," said a familiar, grating voice. "Hands where I can see them."

Spain heaved a resigned sigh and raised his hands to show he wasn't armed. Why did God hate him so much?

* * *

"Now, then," said England. "I've heard a little whisper on the grapevine about a certain 'city of gold.' Care to start talking?"

Spain was many things, but he was not a coward.

Especially not when someone was threatening his gold. So, when England strapped him to a chair and started interrogating him on the whereabouts of _El Dorado_, Spain was not going to give England the satisfaction of learning anything about the city of gold – leaving aside the fact that Spain, himself, didn't know anything about where the city was or even if it was in the southern half of Spain's empire. Who knows? Maybe Spain should have been looking in his northern territories the whole time?

"I will ask you, once again," England drawled as he circled Spain's bound form. "Where is the city, Spain?"

"I don't know," Spain answered – more honestly than he was happy with.

"Don't give me that. I know for a fact that the city of Manõa is in the Guyana area, on the shores of a certain Lake Parime."

"Well, it is the first I've heard of it. Thanks for the tip, England. I will be sure to search there."

"Stop playing dumb, Spain!" England grabbed the chair and forced it back sharply so Spain was staring up at him. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. Manõa, the city with streets paved in gold. I want it, Spain."

"You and me both, _amigo_. But I haven't ever heard of a Manõa or a Lake Parime."

"Do you take me for a fool?" Before Spain could give his honest answer, England had whipped out a map of the southern Americas with a rather crudely-drawn design of a lake slapped right across the center. "It's right here on the map, Spain."

"Did you get drunk and start playing make-believe with my colonies? Don't you have better things to do with your time?"

"Tell me where the city is, Spain!"

The rather pointless argument went on for some time before some of England's men arrived to warn him that Spanish reinforcements were within sight and it would probably be for the best if they took their leave. Spain later filed an official complaint with his king over the incident and, while England, himself, escaped with nothing more than a stern warning, the English captain responsible for launching the English search for the lost city of gold, one Sir Walter Raleigh, ended up having his head put on the chopping block for inciting an international incident.

* * *

_Present Day…_

The Republic of Colombia, who was once a little girl whose big brother named her "Chía," sighed tiredly as she watched her former colonizer staring at a map of South America during a recess at one of the world conference meetings. Even after hundreds of years, Spain still believed the lost city of gold was out there, just waiting to be found. Actually, a lot of countries believed it.

Heck, England had actually found his way to Lake Guatavita in the nineteenth century and employed a company to try and drain it to get the gold. The bottom of the lake was a murky sludge that turned into concrete under the sun, making artifact retrieval _very_ difficult. After incurring hundreds of thousands of pounds of debt, England ended up earning a total of about five-hundred English pounds by selling the recovered artifacts at Sotheby's and the company he'd hired went bankrupt. After several similar incidents, Colombia made it very clear that there would be no more foreign attempts to get rich by exploiting her people's national heritage…or else.

It wasn't like England had been the first to try and exploit Lake Guatavita, but, like his laughably idiotic attempt, everyone before (and after) him failed to break even on any such endeavor.

_Gee, it's almost like Lake Guatavita is __**sacred**__, or something_, Colombia thought sarcastically.

Even if she was a Christian now, Colombia couldn't help but feel that there was something mystical and otherworldly about Lake Guatavita and the other holy lakes her brother Muisca had worshipped at. Considering all that had happened to nations like Spain and England when they tried to take advantage of Colombia and her people, it felt like the ancient goddess of the lake was having the last laugh.

There had been many times that Colombia considered explaining to Spain the truth, but he'd never really listened to anyone other than himself – and Romano, sometimes. The fact was, the lost city of gold was purely Spain's own invention. It had never existed in reality, but Spain had been so certain that the real treasure trove was out there waiting to be discovered that he ignored anything that conflicted with this delusion.

He had literally found a civilization that covered their king in gold dust and threw the equivalent of Spain's yearly salary into a lake and it still wasn't enough. He had uncovered massive amounts of rare and valuable platinum, but he threw it away because it wasn't yellow.

No, in Spain's mind, the only explanation for why Muisca could afford to throw away gold like it was trash was because he _obviously_ had so much gold hidden away that a lake filled with gold offerings to a goddess was barely pocket change compared to the real hoard. Never once had Spain considered that the reason Muisca was a wealthy and powerful nation was because he used the barter system to great effect and was able to import large quantities of gold specifically for the purpose of jewelry and ceremonial trinkets, or the simple fact that Muisca didn't assign the same value to gold that Spain did.

It really was a living example on the destructive nature of fanatical greed and imperialistic delusion.

Colombia still had a good laugh whenever some foolish nation or human came to her place asking about _El Dorado_. She was quick to set the record straight, though some were less easily dissuaded than others. Spain and England both still insisted that they just hadn't been looking in the right place – England, in a more recent search, even got in huge trouble with Brazil for illegal excavations a few decades ago.

But people, and nations, would continue on as they always had. If someone decided that _El Dorado_ must really be in Guyana, or Brazil, or Mexico, or underneath Mount Rushmore in the U.S., nothing would dissuade that person from searching until they ended up bankrupt or dead.

That was the true power of greed.

* * *

**Author's Note****: Yep, El Dorado is pure wishful-thinking because Spain got greedy and basically pwned himself while England just made the situation worse. And I swear to God that all these acts of idiocy are real. I'm sorry, Spain, I don't mean to make fun of you, but you just make it so easy.**

**I am pretty sure every economist in history is mentally screaming at Spain's incredible short-sightedness in bringing back so much gold. Because, as anyone with even a basic understanding of economics knows, the more you have of something the less valuable it is. Spain sparked off inflation in his own national currency by bringing back all those tons of gold.**

**And the Spanish really did throw the super-rare, extremely valuable metal platinum into the sea because they thought it was worthless and wanted to stop people mixing it with gold to make 'cheap' counterfeit coins.**

**The Muisca are quite interesting. They were the most powerful indigenous nation in all of what is now Colombia. They had two rulers (the zipa in the south and the zaque in the north) who each inherited their title from their maternal uncle. The only time the title of zipa is known to have not passed from a zipa to the eldest son of his eldest sister is when Tisquesusa was succeeded by his brother as an act of defiance against the Spanish for murdering Tisquesusa.**

**The Muisca would inaugurate a new zipa by covering him in gold dust and having him jump into Lake Guatavita while gold votive offerings were tossed in for the goddess of the lake. The Muisca imported all their gold, but there was just so much of it that it wasn't particularly valuable to them except as decoration or ritual offerings. **

**So, the Spanish found a powerful kingdom (equal in power and culture to the Aztecs) in the jungle that had so much gold it was basically regarded in the same light as modeling clay, but less useful, and even covered their leaders in gold, but it legit wasn't El Dorado enough for them?!**

**Also, from what I've read, the Muisca did not place a great deal of value on female virginity. According to the sources I found, virginity was seen as a mark of ugliness. Can't be **_**too**_** sure of the validity of the information, though, but it would be interesting if it's accurate.**

**Fun fact: The Muisca word for youngest daughter is 'china,' so imagine how Colombia feels whenever she has to speak to China (especially when he starts talking about his 'foolish little brothers and sister' and Colombia is just standing there thinking, 'But aren't you the youngest girl?').**

**Catalonia is an autonomous region of Spain which has been making bids for independence from the country for ages. I headcanon that Spain set her to work 'civilizing' his colonies for him, but she just ended up making them all as stubborn as she is.**

**The reason why Sir Walter Raleigh was beheaded on the orders of King James I was because he sparked an international incident by sieging a Spanish fort in an attempt to get information for his El Dorado quest, which he embarked on after learning of a very spurious account by a man who did not exist who went on an expedition that it would have been impossible for him to have been on (though was likely based on a real man on a real expedition) and then just made up stuff about the name and location of the lost city of gold with literally no evidence for any of it. And he actually thought it was a valid excuse to kidnap a conquistador and go poking around in the jungle.**

**Also, there was a British expedition in the 1980s that got in trouble with Brazil for theft of antiquities during an expedition for El Dorado. And people have tried to drain Lake Guatavita only to meet with disaster.**

**Frankly, I think the real treasure should have been friendship. It **_**is**_** the greatest treasure of all.**


	9. Loyalty

**Warning: War.**

Loyalty

_1066 A.D._

You could feel it in the air.

It was a kind of energy bubbling away, waiting for the storm to break loose. England had always been particularly sensitive to the strange, supernatural forces at work in the world, especially when they pertained to war. He was only a child, but his life had always seemed to be one brutal conflict after another.

He still cried for his mother, thinking that if she were with him then maybe she could make it all go away. But Britannia had been no stranger to war, herself – and England had to keep reminding himself of that fact. And while she had vanished, leaving her youngest child alone in the world, England knew she would want him to remain true to his king and to fight for his people, even if said king and said people were not original to these lands.

But, faced with the impending invasion of France and his Norman allies, or else the attempt from Denmark to seize control in England's lands again, the Saxons were a much, _much_ better option.

"Perfect night for a storm," a low, deep voice said beside him, and England looked up to see his guardian, Wessex.

After Britannia had died, England had been repeatedly stepped on by various groups looking to make names for themselves. His lands had eventually been split into the Seven Kingdoms, all of whom despised each other and squabbled over who had the right to care for little England. It had been Wessex, an impetuous and hot-headed young man, who had won out and ended up looking after England for a couple centuries now.

A man who was more of a brother to England than England's _actual_ brothers.

"Maybe we'll get lucky and the storm will destroy the Norman fleet," England said.

"Since when have we ever been so fortunate?" said Wessex.

"We have to have some hope. I mean, Harold is the true and rightful king! No way will God let some smelly frog like William take over."

"I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss the dangers, Arthur. William and the Normans are not like other men from France. They are of the bloodline of our old enemies the Vikings. Brutal, vindictive, and cruel in their bloodlust."

England shivered and pulled his green, woolen cloak tighter around him, telling himself it was just the chill night air that made him tremble so. Wessex gave him a tired smile and stooped down to rest a hand on England's shoulder.

"Do not worry, Arthur," he said. "I will do everything I can to keep you free from this new enemy. Even if I have to die to do so."

"Don't say that!" England felt tears welling in his eyes, his little hands reaching out to grab Wessex by the front of his tunic. "Don't ever say you'll die for me. I can't be alone again! I _can't_! I'm just a child! How will I survive if you aren't here to protect me?!"

"Easy, there, lad!" Wessex took England's hands in his, dropping to his knees before the little nation, as green eyes met blue. "I don't intend to leave you. God-willing, I've still got some years left in me."

"Then don't ever say there's a chance you could go! Everyone else has left me. Mother, my brothers and sister, Essex, Sussex, Kent, East Anglia, Mercia, Northumbria…they've all left me in one way or another." England threw his arms around Wessex's neck. "I can't lose you, too."

Wessex patted England's back, gently shushing him as he sobbed out his fears.

"Don't cry, lad," said Wessex. "Warriors aren't supposed to cry. Never let anyone see your tears. We have to always be strong, at least on the outside."

England sniffled, trying to fight the tears down.

"I didn't mean to upset you, Arthur," said Wessex calmly. "But you know I can't promise that I will always be around. We nations…we're not invulnerable to _everything_, you know. I will do what I can to come back home safely, but, if I have to give my life for yours, you cannot ask me to refuse, because that's just what you do for the ones you care for.

"Arthur, if the worst _should_ happen, I want _you_ to promise me something."

"What?" said England, eyes still red from crying.

"I want you to never give up fighting. I need you to be a strong, brave warrior and keep my people…_your_ people safe. Stay loyal to your king and to his family, no matter the cost."

"I-I'll try."

"I don't ask this lightly, Arthur. I have seen how you've been treated by foreign powers. Even we Saxons treated you unfairly for many years."

"You weren't so bad."

"Whether or not I wasn't 'so bad' is beside the point. You have been taken advantage of for so long, Arthur, and I haven't shown you the respect or trust you deserve. But I want to change that, now. I want to make sure you become the greatest nation this world has ever seen."

"B-But I'm so small! I'm just a little island. Not even a full island, either, just half of one."

Wessex smiled again and ruffled England's hair.

"Even the smallest nation can make a big difference," he said. "Now, are you ready to be a true kingdom? Will you keep this promise to me?"

"I…I promise, Aelfred."

* * *

England watched from atop the hill as Wessex marched beside King Harold within the ranks of the housecarls.

They had secured a strong position atop a steep slope. The forces of the would-be conqueror William would find it immensely difficult to face the Saxon shield-wall, even with their cavalry. Still, England did not like the looks of the French army below them. The Normans, alone, had already earned a reputation for brutality after their campaign against South Italy and Sicily. That was bad enough, but they were also being aided by Brittany, Flanders, Poitou, Anjou, and Maine. And, what was more, they were being supplied and encouraged in their attack by that whiny little Kingdom of France who had risen to power in the last sixty years or so – England hadn't met him (and he hoped he never would), but he already suspected this 'France' was a spoiled, rotten brat with a massive ego.

Of course, as he continued to watch the army below him, a sliver of fear entered his heart. For the first time in ages, England genuinely doubted the power of the Wessex Saxons.

When the battle finally began, though, England's worries eased considerably. William sent his archers in first, but their arrows merely bounced off the shield-wall and they soon began to run low on ammunition for their bows. King Harold did not employ archers, meaning there were no extra arrows for the Norman archers to collect for reloading.

William then sent in his spearmen, who charged up the hill and crashed against the Saxon line. England cheered as the Saxons held strong and, from behind the lines, launched throwing spears, axes, and stones at the Normans, who quickly began to falter. The Norman cavalry started to charge up to assist the rapidly-falling spearmen, but they, too, were repulsed by the strength of the housecarls and even the poorly-armed fyrd.

England, along with the other non-combatant Saxons, laughed as the Norman forces fell to the might of Saxon warriors and shouted encouragement to the brave defenders of the kingdom.

When the men of Brittany cried out "Retreat!" England was more confident and optimistic for the outcome of this battle than he had been about any other conflict. The Normans also began to cry that William, himself, was dead and that the battle was lost. A cruel satisfaction entered England's heart at the knowledge that the man who dared try to usurp his throne would never bother him or Wessex again.

If only he had realized it was too good to be true.

Riding high on their obviously certain victory, King Harold's brothers Gyrth and Leofwine broke rank and began to chase the Norman soldiers down the hill. They were followed swiftly by the fyrd, who dropped their positions in the shield-wall. When the elite housecarls soon joined them, England began to suspect something was wrong as King Harold shouted at the men to stop and return to formation – the desperation in his voice growing stronger as his troops ignored the command.

England ran forward to get a clearer view of what was happening and his heart dropped into his stomach as a towering man on horseback rode to meet the Norman cavalry, removing his helmet to reveal himself as none other than the supposedly-dead Duke William.

The Normans turned back around as the Saxons reached the bottom of the hill. And the slaughter began.

* * *

England was racing back to London as fast as he could. A young Saxon noble, a mere boy of fifteen, was hurrying at his side and watching his back. Edgar Aetheling, son of Edward the Exile, had tried to serve his kinsman and king who had welcomed him to England so courteously after his family's exile had been rescinded. He had wanted to fight, but Harold had ordered him to remain on the sidelines.

"We're almost there," Edgar said breathlessly as they ran along the darkened road.

England did not respond. His mind was filled with the images of all he had seen, all he had lost, within the space of a single day.

King Harold had followed his troops and tried to regain a semblance of order, even as the Normans tricked the Saxon soldiers into breaking formation several times with fake retreats. Harold had nearly withdrawn from the battle, altogether, until he saw the broken bodies of Gyrth and Leofwine, so mutilated by the Normans he only barely recognized them. This ignited in King Harold a powerful rage that drove him to fight like an animal until the last rays of the sun began to fade and the last Saxon warrior lay dead.

Wessex had been at the king's side until the very end.

In the heat of battle, no one knew who finally felled King Harold, but England had seen an arrow hit the king just as a mounted Norman rode him down and trampled him beneath the hooves of his horse. When Wessex turned to avenge his king, a smirking Norman drove a spear through Wessex's throat. In that moment, a searing pain coursed through England and he knew…Wessex was gone. Forever.

"We're here!" Edgar exclaimed.

England barely registered what the young lordling said, still wracked as he was by the numbness of losing the closest thing he had to real family left. Edgar, moved by a frantic determination to get to their destination, picked England up and placed him on his back so that he could move get them there more quickly.

The teenage boy pelted through the streets of London town, earning many stares from the people. Up to the meeting hall of the Witenagemot, a council of the Saxon ruling elite, Edgar burst into the chamber to meet the startled, elderly lords.

"The king is dead," Edgar proclaimed. He paused to let England down off his back. "The Normans have routed our forces at Hastings and make for London, as we speak."

The lords began to murmur fearfully. Many of them had sons who had fallen on that field, and listening to young Edgar recount the callous way the Saxon soldiers' bodies were left out to rot or thrown into the sea like rubbish rather than be given Christian burial enraged them and urged them to action.

"What is your name, boy?" one of the lords asked.

"I am Edgar Aetheling, son of Edward Aetheling, son of Edmund Ironside," Edgar stated proudly.

Another murmur rippled through the court. They had heard rumors that the grandson of Edmund Ironside had been brought back home to England after King Edward the Confessor learned that his nephew Edward Aetheling had survived the murder attempt against him by the Danish king Cnut – King Edward had mourned for the boy who had been his namesake, never finding out until a few years ago that both Edward and his brother Edmund had escaped and found refuge in the court of the king of Hungary. King Edward had invited his nephew to England – and, according to some reports, desired to name him his heir – shortly after discovering his survival, only for young Edward to mysteriously die upon reaching his homeland. No one had seen Edward Aetheling's family since they followed him to England, as it was believed the king sought to keep them hidden from the power-hungry factions until Edgar was old enough to succeed to the throne.

"It is true!" another lord called out. "He is the rightful heir to the throne!"

England barely heard the cries of the lords as they scrambled to officially acknowledge and crown the fifteen-year-old Edgar their king. Such was their desperation to try and provide the realm with a true Saxon heir to the throne that they were blind to the futility of the effort. William of Normandy would never accept any king of England but himself.

* * *

The night was inky-black as England led the little party of women and children to the docks.

The last of House Godwin. The family of King Harold. No matter what England or the Saxon people, in general, had felt about the power-hungry Godwins, they were the family of an English king and deserved better than whatever cruel fate William had in store for them. Edgar might be England's king for the moment, but he was just a boy, uncrowned, with no true authority or even an army at his back. William would not dare kill him, as young Edgar was the great-nephew of Edward the Confessor, but the boy-king would doubtless end his days as a hostage of Normandy.

King Harold's family had no such protection.

His sister Edith might, as the widow of King Edward, but Harold's own wife, sons, and daughters were in imminent danger. That was why England had arranged to smuggle them out in the dead of night. It was his final act of loyalty to Wessex, to save the king's family.

"Is t'is everyone?" a hooded figure asked from the little boat, the voice was high and carried an Irish lilt.

England's breath hitched in his throat as the figure looked up. He knew those green eyes – they were the same as his own. For the first time in decades, England gazed upon the face of his older sister.

"This is everyone, Erin," he said.

She nodded and turned away. And that was it. No fond, familial embrace, no apology for abandoning him for centuries, not even an acknowledgement of England as her little brother. Nothing. He supposed she considered it an enormous favor helping his royal family escape to Dublin. It had been hell contacting her on such short notice, but she couldn't even be bothered to look him square in the eye and call him her little brother.

Words could not express how deeply that stung.

She quietly beckoned over two other figures in the boat. Both were boys, though still older than England. One boy drew back his hood and England recognized him as his brother, Northern Ireland. It had long been curious to him how there were two personifications for the little isle of Ireland, North and South, but Patrick and Erin had always been there together, one at the other's side since the olden days, perhaps serving to prophesy some future split in their island kingdom. Northern Ireland paid him not more mind than their sister had.

The second boy also looked up and England had to fight back a snarl at the cold, indifferent face of Norway. At least it wasn't Denmark. England would have taken far more issue if that oafish Viking was present. So England held back his anger at one of his former tormentors, for these three were the only chance of escape for the Godwin family.

"Can we hurry this up?" Norway said in a bored tone. "If we want to get to Dublin before the Normans reach London, I suggest you get in the boat."

Queen Ealdgyth was first into the boat, taking care as she was lowered down to not jostle about too much lest she harm her unborn child – a child who would never know his father. She was followed by Harold's mother, Lady Gytha Thorkelsdóttir, and Harold's sister Gunnhilda who then helped Ealdgyth to guide the children into the boat. Godwin, Edmund, Magnus, and little Gytha. However, they were one child short.

"Dear God, where is little Gunhild?" Ealdgyth said, panic seizing her. They had all thought Gunhild, the elder of Harold's two daughters, had followed after them when they left.

"She is not coming with us," said Lady Gytha, Harold's proud mother. "She told me she is not abandoning the land of her father."

"And you let her stay behind?!"

The Godwin matriarch drew herself up, her expression cowing her daughter-in-law. And Ealdgyth was no shrinking violet, being of the line of the earls of Mercia, yet the older woman towered over her with a commanding air that would be fitting of an empress.

"Gunhild intends to make her own way from here on out," she said. "She informed me before we left that she will find refuge somewhere…perhaps a convent…and will do what she can to protect the family lands and property from those rotten Normans."

"I'm not letting my little sister put her life at risk," said Godwin fiercely.

"It is not your decision, boy. Now sit down and hold your tongue."

Lady Gytha had always been a formidable woman. It was a quality she had passed down to her daughter Edith – which was likely why the former queen had gotten into so many arguments with the otherwise mild-mannered King Edward. Indeed, all the children of Earl Godwin of Wessex and Gytha Thorkelsdóttir had that natural fire in their hearts.

"We are leaving," Lady Gytha said firmly. "_Now_."

"Safe journey," England said quietly. "All of you."

Little Gytha, Harold's younger daughter, started crying softly. Far from her namesake's domineering nature, Princess Gytha had always been sensitive and sweet.

"I don't want to go," she said. "I want my father."

Ealdgyth took the girl into her arms, trying to calm her. England stooped down, kneeling on the edge of the dock, so that he could see the young princess clearly.

"I am sorry you have to leave, my princess," he said kindly. "But your father would want you to be brave and strong, a true Englishwoman. No matter where you go or what you do, always remember that you are of these lands, that your father was a king of England."

The child wiped her eyes on her sleeve and gazed up at the young nation. She was still sad, England could sense it, but there was something else there, now. A feeling of pride, of dignity. She was not alone in that, either. Her brothers sat straighter and their eyes blazed with a cold, hard determination.

All too soon Norway shoved the boat off from the dock. And, with that, England watched the last traces of King Harold's line disappear into the darkness forever.

* * *

"Starting today, you are my servant!"

That was what the boy with the long, golden-blonde hair had said after shoving England to the ground.

His assumption had been wrong, it seemed. The Kingdom of France was much, _much_ worse than he had anticipated. He was everything England hated; arrogant, entitled, spoiled beyond belief, and filled with such a sense of superiority it was a wonder the older boy had any room for anything resembling a personality in that bloated ego of his.

To make matters worse, France was backed up in his deplorable behavior by Normandy. A huge, hulking giant of a personification, his blonde hair cut into the round bowl-cut of a Norman knight and his dark blue eyes stern and lacking in compassion. He was like France's personal attack-dog, and England knew he wouldn't hesitate to strike England if he dared to fight back against France's petty cruelty.

Even several years after William of Normandy had stolen the English throne, France persistently found amusement in humiliating or hurting England. Many good English nobles were either hostages or had their lands taken and given to Normans. Theft of land and property wasn't enough, though – the Normans cut a bloody, brutal path through the kingdom, slaughtering any who dared oppose them (or even those who didn't but happened to run into them), looting and burning villages and towns, and raping countless Saxon women and girls.

And France just sat there in the throne room and mocked England's suffering.

The worst twist of the metaphorical knife was when the late King Harold's three eldest sons tried to launch a rebellion against William. They failed…miserably. No one knew what happened to them after the rebellion, though it was the common belief at court that all three boys were dead. As if to add insult to injury, Ulf Haroldson was captured by William after he tracked Queen Ealdgyth to Chester where her brothers had hidden her. Little Ulf, a boy barely old enough to even understand who he was, was one of the twin boys born to Queen Ealdgyth after her escape. In the confusion of the attack, Ulf had been left behind while his mother and twin brother fled.

Ulf and Harold Haroldson. Two brothers who would never see each other again as one was sent to spend the rest of his days in captivity whilst the other was in exile with his mother at the court of the king of Norway. Little Gytha had been left behind in Denmark after her older brothers traveled there in a vain attempt to persuade their cousin the king of Denmark to assist their rebellion. The last England had heard, the poor, frightened little girl was arranged to marry a prince in a far-off, desolate land.

France got a considerable amount of laughs jeering at England for the tragic fate of the Godwins.

Things hadn't fared much better for the Aethelings, either. Edgar never even made it to an official coronation before William turned up in London with his army. All the lords and clergy who had so fervently attempted to elect the boy as king suddenly turned around and shoved the child out the gate to kneel before the Norman duke. At least Edgar and his family managed to escape William's grasp after his surrender, making it safely to Scotland.

Edgar's sister Margaret had swiftly captured the heart of King Malcolm and was now the man's queen, and the Scottish king was more than happy to assist his new brother-in-law Edgar in causing trouble for William. So, England supposed, some small hope still lingered.

The Scots apparently hated the Normans as much as England and the Saxons did.

* * *

England still thought about Wessex.

There were days he would sneak out of the castle that had become his prison and sit beside the Thames, remembering with sad fondness the many hours he had spent with the Saxon kingdom. He did not cry for Wessex, as he knew Wessex would have chided him for it, but he embraced the mournful ache inside of him as he tried to acknowledge the fact that the nation he loved like a true brother would never come home.

A brother not of blood but of choice.

"I had a letter today," England said to the river.

He kept his gaze fixed upon the river, hoping it would carry his words off to the sea where Wessex's body had been so unceremoniously dumped along with that of King Harold.

"It was from little Princess Gytha," he continued. "Well, she's not so little now. And not just a princess but _Grand_ Princess. She says King Sweyn of Denmark arranged for her to marry one of the most powerful men in Europe. Well, _eastern_ Europe, some place called 'Kiev,' but Prince Vladimir is still widely respected and has a lot of influence with Constantinople and the Byzantines."

The river just flowed on, rushing ever onward to the sea.

"She says she's happy. Vladimir doesn't give her much power, she says, so I know that her grandmother and aunt would be furious if they knew. But Gytha's always been more like her mother. Gentle, kind, not a trace of guile or deviousness."

It was why Harold doted on his little girl. She was the closest thing he had left of his first wife, Edith Swan-neck. Beautiful, loving, and so genuine and sincere in her nature. It had broken Harold's heart when the Saxon lords demanded he send his wife away, denouncing their marriage rites as invalid because they had followed the Danish hand-fast ceremony, so he could marry Ealdgyth to get support from the nobles of Mercia.

Gytha had always been her mother writ small. The boys and the other girl, Gunhild, were Godwins through and through, filled with temper and ambition. Gytha just wanted love and happiness.

"She has everything she really wants," said England. "She has a comfortable home, a strong husband who has promised to keep her safe, and several healthy children." England chuckled softly. "She says her eldest boy, Mstislav – God, these foreign names are so odd – she says he's a Godwin right to the core. All piss and vinegar, that one."

England felt the breeze brushing against his face.

"I also found out where young Gunhild ended up," he said. "Turns out she was hiding in Wilton Abbey over in Wiltshire, reading everything she can get her hands on. I only found out about it because she just eloped with some Breton noble. Chap called 'Alan the Red.' I was outraged, at first. I mean, the man's in his fifties and she's still a slip of a girl. But then I found out that Alan was the one who took her mother's land holdings. I'd say it's only a matter of days before he suffers an 'accident.'"

England almost thought he heard laughter on the wind.

"Wish I could say with certainty what happened to the boys, though. I've heard rumors that Magnus survived and has joined a monastery. But Godwin and Edmund…I don't know if they are alive or dead. I can't sense their presence anymore."

He forced back the tears welling in his eyes.

"At least the two youngest boys have some form of happiness. Little Harold is a warrior in Norway's royal court. He's well-liked and popular and I think he'll be all right. And Ulf, well, his uncle has been watching out for him. Wulfnoth has no children of his own and having his nephew with him has raised his spirits in his captivity. I've even heard that Ulf has been receiving training as a knight."

'So long as the boy remains loyal to William,' was left unsaid. England knew little Ulf was in a precarious position. As Harold's son, he was a potential threat, which was why he was being kept in indefinite captivity with his uncle, a man who had been a prisoner in Normandy since before the war for the throne even truly started. It was strange, though, that William should permit the boy training in the skills of a Norman cavalryman. Maybe there was something about Ulf's situation that moved even the stone heart of William of Normandy to pity. Or perhaps there was a lingering fondness for the memory of Ulf's father, as Harold Godwinson had, at one point, been William's friend.

"I wish you were here," England said after a lengthy pause. "I miss you. I even miss King Harold. He might not have been the best king, but he was _our _king. I hate William. I hate Normandy. And I _despise_ France."

"You should be more careful with your words, boy," said a gruff voice behind him.

England jolted and fell over as Normandy lumbered into view.

"I…I'm sorry…I…" England fumbled for words.

"Do not bother with some pathetic, fake apology," Normandy said, rolling his eyes. "Save them for someone who cares."

"Wh-what do you want with me?"

"I just thought I should give you the news that France is being sent back to the mainland again. This time for good."

England's heart began to hammer. France would take a month or so every year to visit England's lands and bully him before going back to his own country. To hear that France was going away for good…it was like music to England's ears. But it also made the child suspicious and he raised an eyebrow at Normandy.

"Why is he not returning?" said England.

"Because I'm sick of the little brat, that's why," Normandy snapped. "He thinks because I am his vassal that I will do whatever he says. I was formed by the sons of Vikings and I do not bow to spoiled boys who dress like little girls."

In that instant, England's respect for Normandy tripled.

"I felt sorry for the boy when I first met him," Normandy continued. "He's an orphan, you know. And his father was an absolute bastard when he was still alive. But just because a man has a sad past does not excuse his actions."

"And what excuses _yours_?" England said, thinking of all the misery Normandy inflicted on England's people.

"I do not have any excuses. I never pretended to be a good man. I live for and by the sword, boy. I have always been seen as scum by the French nobles, all Normans are, so I act the way that is expected of me. I will pay my dues for it someday and I know it. But that boy France, he has become so full of self-pity that he thinks he can do no wrong. _That_ is what _I_ hate, boy. A man must always be accountable for his own actions."

It definitely put a new face on matters. England still despised France, but at least he understood why the boy was such a terror. He believed that his unhappy early years had earned him a pass to behave as he pleased. England's own experience had taught him the opposite, that bad experiences meant you had to work hard to be a better person than the ones who hurt you.

"Look, boy," Normandy continued with an impatient huff. "I am not asking you to like me. But, as I am in charge of you, I want us to be able to work together. These last few years, from what I've seen, you are much more bearable to be around than France. So, if you'll stop with all the rebellions, I will treat you like a partner from here on out. All I ask is your loyalty to my cause. What do you say, boy? Truce?"

England stared at Normandy for a moment. The blunt, hard-eyed man was offering to look out for him and show him a bit of respect. England did not like Normandy, even though his estimation of the man had gone up considerably in the last few minutes, but he could see the potential in a partnership with the brutal soldier nation. Normandy would never replace Wessex, but England could understand the importance of having a strong, older nation guiding and teaching him now that Wessex was dead. And England knew, as his people did, that there was a shared goal developing between both Saxons and Normans – that of forging a powerful nation independent of France.

"Truce," England said with a cold smile.

* * *

**Author's Note****: There's my take on the Norman Conquest.**

**I have been thinking about early English history, lately, and it got me wondering what England's relationship with the Seven Kingdoms was like (and, yes, they really are called the "Seven Kingdoms" just like in a certain medieval fantasy novel known to use elements from English history). I came to the conclusion that, after Britannia died, England was basically abandoned by his siblings and ended up being looked after by the Saxon kingdoms, specifically by Wessex (the most powerful kingdom, once ruled by the famous Alfred the Great *hint*hint*) who became an older brother figure to England.**

**I also decided that England and Wessex's relationship should be something of a parallel to England's relationship with America. A lost little boy, whose mother vanished as foreigners took over her lands, leaving the boy to be raised by one of his invaders, but having a closeness and friendship with his new guardian that helped make him strong in the face of hardships.**

**I see France and Normandy's relationship being a bit like that between Prince Joffrey and Sandor Clegane in Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire. Normandy doesn't particularly like France, but he's loyal to him as a vassal (until he decides to say "fuck the king" and strikes out on his own). France, by this point, has basically got no positive influences in his life – his parents, one of whom was abusive, are both dead, his sisters are only interested in looking after themselves, and his vassals are either warring with each other or acting like sycophants to him, so of course France is a bit messed up and going to use England as a punching bag to try and cope with his plethora of issues (it doesn't excuse it, but it's my explanation for why little France acts like a bully to England – even in canon you see France picking on England in a way that, to me, looks like a victim venting his anger by kicking someone he considers weaker than himself).**

**Saxon military terms: Fyrd are poorly-armed militia units. Housecarls are elite, mostly noble-born warriors.**

**Edgar Aetheling's sister Margaret is St. Margaret of Scotland, wife of Malcolm III the son of King Duncan (you know, **_**that**_** King Duncan, the one killed by a certain person in a certain Scottish play by a certain William Shakespeare).**

**Not a lot is known with certainty about Harold Godwinson's children or their fates. In fact, his two youngest sons, Harold and Ulf, are not even verified to have been twins or even born to the same mother (it is a theory, as both boys have been listed as sons of Harold's second wife and born in 1067, meaning Ealdgyth was pregnant when Harold died, though a lot of sources are really muddled). Even the fate of his daughter Gytha is disputed, but there is a lot of evidence that she was the first wife of Vladimir II Monomakh of Kievan Rus' and the mother of Mstislav the Great.**


End file.
